


The Bastard Truth - Part Four

by nairmakgren



Series: The Bastard Truth [4]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Ancient Technology, Death, Dragon Riders, Epic Battles, F/M, Love, R plus L equals J, Smut, Undead, Wedding Night, White Walkers, duh - Freeform, legitimization
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-02 16:27:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 38,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8674513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nairmakgren/pseuds/nairmakgren
Summary: The endgame is upon Westeros as things lurch ever forward.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the tags I have put in as many characters as I can who will be in the work even if their chapters are not ready yet. Will add more as we go through!

All around him the soldiers loaded the wagons with their newly acquired goods. Loads of cloth including fine silken carpets, draperies and clothing of all types – from breeches to dresses for their wives lined many of the carts. In others were the valued treasures taken from the homes of the wealthy and the formerly proud houses of Oldtown; priceless artifacts from ancient families, enough jewelery to fill the Red Keep three times over and various precious metals including gold, silver, topaz and sapphires. Finally the wagons were full to bursting with gold dragons and silver stags; enough to pay every man a year's salary at least five times over.

Randyll Tarly had taken nothing but what he came for – Heartsbane. He cradled the sword in his lap as he waited for the soldiers to finish, his own wagon already loaded – not with loot or plunder but weapons and supplies for the trip back to Horn Hill. All around him Lannister and Tarly men alike laughed and compared their spoils of war.

Randyll was a harsh man; as lord of a great house of the Reach he had to be. He despised rapers, thieves and looters. But Oldtown was an enemy of the crown, and enemies of the crown had no protections under his law.

A thin smile played on his lips as he ran a finger along the hilt. How many battles have been fought with this blade? How many more will there be? He even wondered what the Valyrians of old had done with the blade when it was theirs. It had only been in his family for five hundred years, after all.

“Father, the wagons are ready.” His son Dickon hopped up onto the riding platform, settling himself in. “All the men are present and accounted for.”

Randyll nodded, looking to his son's troubled face. Dickon was too soft with Samwell – the fat slob was probably weeping uncontrollably in a puddle of his own piss by now – but he was right. Killing his own child would tarnish the name of Tarly for generations to come. “You disapprove.”

Dickon sighed, shaking his head. “Not everyone is cut out for war, Father. You should know that by now.” He shifted in his seat as the wagons began moving, heading back towards Horn Hill. “Sam is gifted, just in other ways.”

“Ways that should not be a trait of a Tarly!” snapped Randyll, sneering towards his heir. “Him, the heir to our House? A house that has always prided itself on its soldiers? Preposterous. I would not suffer that...mistake any longer then I had to.”

“You proved that.” Dickon mumbled, eyes glancing about. “but Sam is a smart, bright and talented man. He's going to be a maester! You should be proud of that at least.”

 _Be proud of a craven wearing a chain? A coward's path._ “I would rather him be dead then put on a bloody chain!” At least the Night's Watch would be a convenient way for him to die – falling off the Wall or pissing himself so much out of fear his heart gave out. But instead Samwell had returned, bearing a bastard – a bastard Randyll had even offered to raise. At least something good would come from his failure of a son.

* * *

 

But they had repaid his kindness by stealing away with Heartsbane. “Sometimes I swear you care more about that sword then you do the family.” came Dickon's reply, grasping the reigns as the wagons continued down the dirt road away from Oldtown.

“The family is important! But so is this sword. This sword represents everything that IS our family. One day it will be yours!” he snarled, grinding his teeth together in disgust. Why did Dickon persist in defying him?

They rode in silence, the rattling of the crates being all that was heard above the pattering of hooves. It was a few days travel from Oldtown to Horn Hill – from there, the Lannister soldiers would debark with their goods and presumably be off to either Casterly Rock or King's Landing. Randyll in the mean time had to begin his work as Warden of the South.

There would be questions from the other houses of the Reach as to why the Tarlys had bent the knee. Were they not the strongest and most proud of the Tyrell banners? Why would a house with a reputation for fierce and disciplined fighters give up after one battle would be the questions on the minds of his fellow lords.

It did not matter what they thought. As the dragon fire roasted the battlements at Highgarden and the screams of the defenders echoed across the Reach Randyll knew that the time of the Tyrells had come to pass. Just as it had with the Gardeners of old, who had foolishly defied Aegon the Conqueror and paid with their entire existence the Tyrells were now paying for their decision to ally with the Targaryen upstart.

Cersei Lannister was no prized pig to be sure, but she controlled something that no army could ever contend with – not truly, anyhow. Dragons were creatures not to be toyed with; the Reach could send its entire force, one hundred thousand strong against a single beast and still lose. So as Highgarden burned, its House laid bare and decimated – the only surviving Tyrell was Olenna, an old crone of a woman who was not even a Tyrell by birth, but a Redwyne.

To be Wardens of the South was a lofty goal that Randyll had never aspired to – but since he had been the first one to bend his knee to King's Landing it was logical that the Queen would grant him the right. He would be a firm and just ruler – there would be no room for emotions or foolish activities of the like. A strong and guiding military hand would make the Reach the most powerful of the Seven Kingdoms.

“You will be Warden of the South someday, Dickon.” he said out-loud. “I expect you to act as befitting your station. When we return to Horn Hill I will find you a betrothal that will suit you.” Dickon's strength, stamina and endurance would make him a valuable sire for any children he may produce.

“We've already talked about betrothals, Father.” None of his family were fond of the talk of marriage but Randyll knew it was a necessity – he had grumbled and groaned about his own betrothal to Melissa Florent but now, all these years later she was a valuable partner and guiding hand.

“And we will talk about it again.” Randyll scowled. “Must you defy me? You are starting to act as Samwell did. You do not want to walk that road with me, boy.”

“Defying you? I'm merely saying we've talked about it. I'm content being unwed for the time being. Can't you accept that?”

“I have more important things to focus on then listening to you adopt a craven attitude!” Randyll gripped Heartsbane's scabbard as tightly as he could, his hands shaking in anger and irritation. “You will marry who I decide. You will get a son on who I decide. Your son will inherit House Tarly after you are gone, just as you will inherit it after I am.”

Dickon rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed at his father's incessant pestering. He opened his mouth respond but was cut off by the screeching roar of an incoming dragon. He looked out of the wagon, eyes darting to the skies fearfully. All around them the convoy was coming to a halt as the horses were too frightened to move.

Randyll saw it first – a shadow descending from the sky in front of them. It crashed to the earth with a great shake, sending gravel and dirt flying into the air. The beast was marred with scars and open wounds, a great chain wrapped through it's mouth like a bridle. A smirking man wearing ironborn colors sat astride it.

* * *

Euron Greyjoy. He hated the ironborn and their pirate ways – but Randyll despised Greyjoy even more then the others. The man was a rash, ill tempered hothead who had no business becoming a regional power overnight as he had. He was also the main instigator of the war against Daenerys Targaryen, having lead the sack of Highgarden and assault on Dragonstone.

“Lord Tarly!” he shouted, waving down towards the wagon. “I'm glad I caught you when I did.”

“What do you want, Greyjoy? Don't you have a city to keep?” Randyll jumped from the wagon and strode closer to the beast, who hissed and snapped at him for a brief moment before the chain yanked it's head back. “My men and I are on our way back to Horn Hill. Move aside and let us be on our way.”

Euron laughed, gently patting the dragon's neck as he slid down to the ground, sauntering his way over to him with a smirk. He was garbed in his usual dirty grey cloak and ironborn style breastplate – the only difference being that the kraken of Greyjoy was replaced by a crow emblazoned in gold.

“You see, there's been some news from King's Landing, I thought you might want to know about!” he exclaimed, patting the visibly irritated Randyll on the arm, “apparently our dear Dragon Queen has begun her assault on the capital! She's taken the Mud Gate and is trying to break into the rest of the city.”

* * *

“What?!” Dickon shouted, running to his father's side. “If she's the Mud Gate then -”

“Then the city is doomed! Smart boy,” Euron patted Dickon's cheek. “He must be yours. Takes after his daddy's wit.”

A scowl was his reply as Randyll simply stared at the ironborn with disgust on his face. If what he said was true then King's Landing was in mortal danger – with the Mud Gate having fallen to the invading Targaryen force it would be easy – almost pitifully so – for her to capture the Red Keep. “Is there anything else or are you just here to waste our time?”

“Waste your time? My dear Randyll Tarly, when do I waste time?!” Euron scoffed, mockingly indignant. “I let you into my city, pillage my treasures – and instead you tell me I am wasting time? I'm hurt.”

“I don't care what you do with the city. All I care about is that I have what is mine.” Randyll's hand went to Heartsbane, now clipped at his belt.

That got a whistle out of the king. “Valyrian Steel, I take it? Not bad.” he nodded, clearly impressed. “I've got some of my own, actually. Though it's far too bulky to carry around, sadly. Well, then!” he cleared his throat, strolling back over to the dragon. “Given that our dear Queen is under siege she would beseech her Warden for aid. She's already asked me – and I'm far too busy to help that hag any more.”

“You would refuse the Queen? That's treason – though you ironborn know all about that.” Randyll growled.

“You're so right. Oldtown – well, it's the true prize here. Everything I've done has been leading up to this moment, dear Randyll. Do you know why?” A wicked smile crossed his face.

“More plunder, obviously.”

Euron scoffed. “Plunder? Oh, I am not as base as to care about that. No, my interest lies in the Citadel – the whole history of Westeros is said to lie within its walls. Histories of the far beyond, as well – including that of ancient Valyria. It is worth more to me then any treasure.”

“Some musty old books? You sound like my fat craven son.” Randyll sneered.

“Well maybe your fat craven son had the right idea.” He clambered up to his original seat on the dragon, grasping the chains as he did so. “If you'll excuse me I've a city to rule! Oh, and before I forget. DRACARYS!”

As the beast's flame enveloped him and burned away his flesh Randyll Tarly's last thoughts were clouded with an emotion he had long buried.

_Fear._

* * *

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The North engages the Others at Last Hearth.

From the top of the hill overlooking the Last Hearth Sansa and her commanders viewed the field.

It did not look good. The fortress – which was the ancestral seat of House Umber – was barely visible under a sea of wights, swarming all around the land. Dead trees and rotting timber houses were scattered about, the remains of a settlement likely overtaken by the undead within the first few hours after the Wall's collapse.

Besides the various lords and captains of the Stark force observing at her side, Sansa also had Davos, Tormund, Brienne and Beric Dondarrion. Each of their faces were grim and betrayed their fear. Sansa herself had tried to remain stone-faced and unrelenting in the face of such odds – but the vast and seemingly endless numbers around them filled her with a sense of dread strong enough for everyone.

The thick white mist – characteristic of the Others – blanketed the area beyond the Last Hearth, stretching back to what was likely the shattered remains of the Wall. Even then an endless stream of undead swarmed towards the settlement, and Sansa spied piles of dead wights already at the base of the high walls. It seemed that the defenders – including the wildlings lead by Dim Dalba – were hard at work trying to fend off the attackers.

Above them Jon flew in circles with Rhaegal, the beast searching for any kind of exploit that they could use. So far, he seemed to have found nothing. We knew this was a possibility. Sansa chewed on her lip as the near-deafening roars and screeches of the wights filled the morning air. The stench – a putrid, festering rot almost similar to an infected wound – also caused many of the lords and captains to gag.

“This is it, my lady.” Brienne spoke first, her gaze darting to Sansa. “What is the plan now?”

Davos gripped the reins of his horse as tightly as possible, his breathing sharp and ragged. “We have the shields in formation as you and the King suggested, Lady Sansa.” he nodded. “On your signal we begin the advance.”

The plan was straightforward – and Sansa had to admit a certain sense of pride in having helped conceive it. Jon had told her of the Bolton tactics used on his forces during the attack on Winterfell and how their huge tower shields had been able to change the battle from a wide open field to a compressed and chaotic circle.

The Stark force had a massive number of such shields; Jon having ordered the smiths at all major settlements to begin work on them. They were going to do what Ramsay had done – only their plan was more straightforward and did not depend on body piles.

Upon her signal the main force would advance, their shields forming a thick and unrelenting line at least five rows deep. They would push against the wights as they threw themselves uselessly at the ranks while archers peppered them with flaming arrows and the cavalry let loose with pitch jars and barrels.

With luck they would be able to force the ranks of dead back far enough to encircle the Last Hearth and relieve the siege, allowing the Free Folk women and children to get to safety.

“It's risky but bold.” Beric Dondarrion smiled, his ragged appearance contrasting with the neat and proper of those around him. “My men will do our part just as agreed.” Sansa had ordered the brotherhood – including the Hound – to be part of the cavalry advance, giving each man three full jars of pitch.

“Once we get them pushed back beyond the gates of the Last Hearth we can form ranks in a circle. It will allow us the best chance to resist them should they counter attack.” Sansa stated, her voice calm but firm.

Behind her the twenty thousand Northern host were ready, shields and swords and spears held high, the various banners of the great houses flying in the morning wind. But even as she thought of the battle to come her mind turned to Jon – who would be doing what he could to help drive back the wights from the air. He had endured so much for so long; fighting against the Others beyond the Wall even as the rest of the North mocked their plight. Fighting for Winterfell and for her when most of the North refused to aid them – though Sansa had learned to understand their reasons for doing so were not out of hatred but merely due to fear of the Boltons.

Jon had taught her to be almost human again. For the longest time she had been little more then an ice queen – a term dear Petyr had once used. She had thought only about herself and cared little for the consequences of her actions. She was even on the verge of much to her shame, viewing those closest to her – even family – as pawns to be used for her own means.

She regretted it all. While even Jon admitted that it was all necessary for her to survive Sansa had developed a part of her she thought long dead – the kind heart of the girl she had once been. While she was no where near as naive as before her mind had been opened up thanks to Jon and his actions; he had endured almost the same deal of pain as she, only on a more physical sense. And he had paid for his actions with his life – something she could never claim.

He was a fighter, strong and fierce yet kind and protective. She had taught Jon the art of reading people – something that he himself admitted was a terrible skill of his, having trusted all the wrong people while serving on the Wall. That brought a smile to her face; they had both learned from their experiences and been able to teach one another.

And now – of course, only known to them – they were married before the old gods themselves, and their bond was even more then it had been the day she had arrived at Castle Black. She could almost feel Jon's emotions, feel him inside of her heart. Jon had admitted during the march that he felt the same thing from time to time; even confessing he found himself in distress when her emotions were at their peak.

Instead of being angry with her for riding with their army Jon had embraced her as his Queen and equal. Something she had long sought from men – Petyr, Joffrey, even Ramsay – but who had denied it to her until now.

Sansa's hand went to her stomach as she felt her heart flutter. She was not a stupid girl – something such as love was earned, not given. But Jon had done what many men had claimed they wanted to do; to love her.

_He is the only one who has earned my heart._ Together they had forged a bond even stronger then that of her lord father and lady mother. Together we shall save the North from the Others and stop the Long Night.

“My lady?” it was Davos again, bringing her mind to the present. “When you are ready, we strike.”

She nodded to him. He rode off back into the main force and the sounds of shouting and commands filled the din. Several of the captains rode off to join the host as it marched forward – Tormund, Lord Mazin, and a few others she did not recognize.

The steady crush of footsteps in snow filled the air as twenty thousand soldiers advanced their way towards the Last Hearth, their movements steady and calculated. Sansa heard the beating of drums – used to keep the men in formation – and the almost collective breathing of those who went past her.

“INFANTRY, ADVANCE!” came a shout and the battle was upon them.

* * *

As the first wave of wights crashed into the ranks of the First Men the Night King observed from its horse. The rest of its fellow Others did not move either, their gaze fixed on the battle unfolding before them. It was almost inevitable that the First Men would come for their castle, with those inside the so called “Last Hearth” having resisted against them for this long. But even as the winds picked up speed and the snows began to howl and scream around them the First Men continued their push.

The Night King had taken its time on its advance through the North, moving ever so slowly so as to sap the will of the First Men. It wanted them to react, to fight – feebly as that would be – and see the force that awaited them. To know that for their destructive and hateful ways toward the land that they would be forever forced to serve the same snow and ice that they had once hacked and burned.

It did not matter that the First Men and their army was slowly pushing the wights back away from the gate of their castle. The fire arrows that rained down on them as they fell by the hundreds were of no significance. The Night King had an unlimited stream of servants to throw at them, and it would do so again and again and again.

In truth it almost enjoyed when the First Men attacked. Just as when the Wall had fallen – it was as close to satisfaction that the Night King was able to get, having long ago been purged of such human traits as emotion. A slow moving horde would be far more effective then a fast moving one, as the first purge had shown. That was the reason for its failure; the swift advance of its forces had taken the First Men by surprise but they were able to utilize its creators to drive them back into the Lands of Always Winter.

Over the past thousands of years its creators had slowly dwindled in number until they died out altogether. Now, there were no children to stop them. While the First Men had the ability to fight back now more then ever – the use of dragon-glass and the steel of dragon fire being able to destroy the Others – it would merely prolong their demise.

The Night King allowed the hint of a smile to curve on its face as it watched the Jon Snow ride its dragon down to the battle, spraying the wights with fire as it melted hundreds upon hundreds of them. The Jon Snow and its beast were perhaps the only true complication of the battle – but its last encounter had proven that they could both be defeated. The Jon Snow in particular would make a valuable servant of the Others. As for a dragon – well, the Night King had never seen one nor had a dragon corpse to work with.

But if their purge was successful there would be no need for one. The land would be covered in snow and ice, preserving the land from those who despoiled it. From north to south the world would be cleansed of its disease that was the First Men. Some of those in its army were “Andals” - another race of men that had come to the land several thousand years ago. But men were men, and the First Men were indeed the true threat to the Others and their mission.

As another wave of wights – mostly comprised of ice spiders, bears and the like – thundered past it the Night King nodded. All of its servants were valuable, but to lose one, a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand – it mattered not. They could and would be replaced at will; one dead man was one more servant for it to raise.

 Yet even in the back of its logical and processed mind the Night King allowed a hint of wonder to form in the vestigial remnants of what had been its humanity. It wondered what the creators would think if it were able to see them now. Would they approve of their goal? Of their results? Of their objective?

In an instant the thought was gone as it did not matter. Not now and not ever.

* * *

The resounding heat moistened Jon's face as Rhaegal sprayed forth, vaporizing a steadying line of charging wights as he went. The gout of flame lasted several seconds but it felt like an eternity as beads of sweat ran down his brows.

As he pulled Rhaegal back into the air as sharply as he could Jon chanced a look at his army, fighting its way ever slowly towards the gate of the Last Hearth. From what he could see – which was almost nothing given the blowing snow and biting cold, not to mention his height on the dragon – their lines were holding strong even as waves of wights smashed into the shields, the men holding them wobbling but never breaking.

As he soared back down to unleash more havoc upon the wights Jon thought of the Wall, where he had so many memories come crashing down in a single instant. He thought of his friends, all of the ones he had lost – Edd, Pyp, Grenn, Hobb and the others – and of poor Sam, who was training to become a maester, likely working his heart out only to come back and find there was no longer a proper Night's Watch.

As the fire roasted more charging dead things; men, animals, spiders – it did not matter, all were vaporized as they ran screaming into the line of his attack Jon's thoughts even turned to those who had betrayed him. Those who had plunged knives into his chest because their hatred for the Free Folk was so strong that they could not see the true threat to come. And why would they? Alliser Thorne, Bowen Marsh, all of them – they had not seen what he did. They could not know the horror that was to come.

In an odd sort of way Jon felt relieved that they did not live to see what had become of the Watch – that it was gone, most of the brothers and the Vale Knights, all wiped out by beings thought myth for eight thousand years. He wondered what his lord father would say. What would Eddard Stark say about all of this? Dragons, wights, Others...he always had an answer for every problem in life, from Jon's birth to his bastardy. Would he be able to solve this problem?

Thoughts swam in his head that Eddard Stark was not his father; his true father had been Crown Prince Rhaegar, cut down before his birth on the banks of the Trident. All Jon knew about him was that he was both a learned man and a strong warrior – but even still what would he think of this? Did the great Targaryens ever consider the threat of the Others far to the north? And if they did – would they care, even now?

As they always did however Jon's thoughts reverted back to the one major thing that kept him going – love. His love for Sansa, the woman who was his wife before the old gods. She was a fierce leader and a fighter – in different ways then he, of course – and Jon knew that he could trust her unconditionally. She was down there now with the other commanders leading the attack. She had helped him plan the strategy that was being used even now – she truly was Queen as much as he was King.

_When this is all over,_ Jon thought to himself, _I'll have a proper coronation for her. First, we have to win._

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys tries to formulate a plan to take King's Landing.

The midday sun loomed over the Blackwater ominously, amidst the burning wreckage of ships from both Lannister and Targaryen fleets. The bay was clogged with warships, the Targaryen flotilla having chased off any remaining Lannister forces in the night. The beaches leading up to the Mud Gate were clogged with the bodies of the dead and dying, of arrows and burnt pitch.

Daenerys watched over it all from an abandoned tavern she had claimed as her command center. Maps and various stratagems were laid out on the table in front of her as she conversed with her advisers. Her forces had only claimed the Mud Gate and the surrounding area; given Cersei's very-real threat to blow up the entire city should they advance the Targaryen army had halted – not just for fear of losing their own lives, but for the loss of the half-million inside the various districts.

She was frustrated, her sleeping habits erratic while being plagued by headaches. Tyrion had sent Grey Worm and some Unsullied to scout the myriad of passageways under the city to try and locate any stores of wildfire – but so far they had come up empty handed.

“We can't simply rule over the Mud Gate, Tyrion.” Daenerys snapped, rubbing her forehead. “We have a hundred thousand soldiers and no where to put them.”

For his part Tyrion Lannister kept a cool head, though his face was constantly contorted into a worried state. “I know, Your Grace. And as I have told you time and time again we are working on finding those tunnels. If we can find even one we can remove the wildfire and move to the district. But there could be hundreds if not thousands of miles.” he counselled softly, placing a hand on her tense arm.

In the days since their arrival their scouts – the limited parties they were able to sneak through – were able to paint a picture of the defenders. Cersei had some twenty five thousand Lannister and City Watch men scattered throughout the city, though the bulk of her forces were at the Red Keep.

She had almost no horses and very few scouts, leaving the majority of her soldiers as infantry or archers. Normally a siege like this would be over in less then a week, even with the size of their target, though no one could account for the wildfire.

“There has to be some way we can get through,” she grumbled, smashing a fist on the table before her. “we need to take the city before she gets any more reinforcements from the Westerlands or the Reach.” She could not simply bring Drogon to the city – if Euron Greyjoy were to show up with his dragon horn then all would be lost.

At her left Yara Greyjoy shook her head, her face a mixture of concern and anger. She'd been angry with the Queen since Theon's departure – at the head of twenty ships on a suicide mission – and allowed it to show even now. “It doesn't matter what we do. We step one fucking toe into the city, boom. Goodbye House Targaryen.”

“I say we get all of our scouts down into the tunnels.” came Mathis Rowan's honest reply. “If the Mad King was able to find places to store the wildfire caches I say we can find where they are and remove them.”

“What if she's bluffing?” Daenerys asked, ignoring the ironborn and the Reachman.

“I'm sure many people said the same thing when the whispers of wildfire under the Sept of Baelor were announced,” Tyrion dryly intoned. “Cersei never bluffs unless she's desperate. She always has something ready to twist the knife in even deeper.”

As her Hand drank down a cup of water, he licked his lips. “I say we recruit scouts of our own. We've a significant smallfolk population that was stranded here before the battle began – why not make use of them?”

“These people can't tell their ass from a hole in the ground,” Yara retorted, scoffing openly.

“Even so, I am sure they can tell a gold dragon from a sword to the throat.” Tyrion grinned, gesturing to the Unsullied guards at the door. “As it happens, I believe I've found the perfect local help we need.”

* * *

The man brought before them was young, perhaps barely out of his teens. He was wearing a brown tunic and pants, both showing signs of soot and decay. He was well-built and muscular with jet black hair. “I hear you're paying good coin for them passages under the city.” he muttered gruffly.

Daenerys turned to face the boy. “And if we are?” Most of the people in this area – nearest to the poor slums – were the worst of the worst through no fault of their own. They had almost nothing to their own names – so exploring the tunnels she was told, was a good way to earn a bit of coin at least.

“Then I'm willing to help if the money's good.” he responded, sitting down in an unoccupied chair. “Was a blacksmith's apprentice before I left for...well, bad reasons. Had to come back here because I had nowhere else to go, but my master's dead and his shop is gone.”

“Why did you leave?” she asked him, studying his face. He seemed oddly familiar to her yet Daenerys had never seen this boy in her life.

That made him nervous and he rubbed his hands together uncomfortably. “I'd rather not say if that's okay with you. Let's just say it was a misunderstanding. Anyway, I know the tunnels pretty well – I grew up in Flea Bottom.”

Tyrion smiled, fishing out a small bag and tossing it to the lad. “Here's five gold dragons as a good faith payment. Find us a single cache and you get a hundred.” he announced, a hint of amusement in his voice as the boy blinked wide eyed at the bag.

“...I can do that. It'll take time – there's hundreds of passages down there – but I know some choice spots to start with.” he opened the bag and let the gold coins roll around in his hands. It was clear he'd never seen this much money in his life. It was a sad scene for Daenerys; _this is the type of person I want to free. To help make their life better._

As he got up to leave she called out to him, his brown eyes gazing back towards her. “Your name? That way, we can identify you when you get your payments.” she smiled sympathetically towards him.

The lad gave a shrug. “Folks call me Gendry.” he stated plainly as he started down the stairs.

“Are you sure he's reliable?” Yara droned, her tone clearly pessimistic. “Could be in it for the free gold. Lead us into a trap.”

“No, he's not the type.” Tyrion grinned, leaning back in his chair as far as his dwarf physique would allow. “Trust me, he'll get us what we need.”

“He looks...familiar somewhere. I can't imagine why, though. I've never seen him before in my life.”

No matter. If he got them what they needed then the people would cry out Gendry's name as their hero. She would see to that personally.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei gets some potentially juicy information and has a talk with her dead husband.

From the balcony located behind the Iron Throne Cersei enjoyed the view of King's Landing. Her city – as it was. Intact and secure – for the time being. She knew the Targaryen forces were occupying the Mud Gate and the Blackwater, the ships crowding the waters as her once-mighty Lannister fleets had.

_I'll have to purge some of those captains,_ she mused to herself as a sly smirk played about on her lips. The surviving ships had fled after their defeat, the tattered lions likely sailing their way back to Lannisport or Casterly Rock. She would not have deserters; especially not now.

Her thoughts turned not to the coming battle or her trump card; the hundreds if not thousands of jars of wildfire hidden beneath the city but to Robert Baratheon, of all people. She had not spared a second thought for her late husband – the fat man-whore that he was – but now his bearded visage was what played about in her mind.

He had always feared that the Targaryens would return to depose him. _There are still those who call me usurper,_ he had liked to rant and rave. But it was not the dragons that did him in but a boar. It was a delightfully ironic way for the man to die – given how obsessed he was with hunting and whoring and drinking. He drank himself into an early grave and the boar was the gravedigger. But deep down beneath his hedonistic exterior she knew he was a broken man; the death of Lyanna Stark had taken away the once mighty warrior that his reputation spoke of.

A sneer curled her lips. The girl was not worth a second thought – yes he had been betrothed to her, but she was an ugly, wild and rebellious...thing. And for the beautiful Rhaegar Targaryen to become enchanted with her? It was an obscene thought even twenty years later.

_He would have been mine._ Her late father had proposed that Cersei wed Rhaegar – Tywin Lannister having served as Aerys's Hand for some twenty years – but had been rejected for a Dornish princess instead.

Things would have been much different if Cersei had married into the Targaryens. She would be the mother to dragons, not this Daenerys girl. Her children would reign supreme over all Seven Kingdoms. And her husband would love her and support her as Robert never did.

* * *

She felt someone take hold of her hand resting on the rail. Turning towards the left she found herself face to face with Robert. He looked at her with a mixture of pity and revulsion, his bearded face betraying a frown.

“Looks like you've really fucked things up, old girl.” he said, shrugging. Cersei ground her teeth together as a twitch ran through her body. _He is the last person I want to see ever again._

“No more then you did,” she retorted, sneering towards him. “I am at least ruling while you drank and fucked and hunted your way to death.”

Robert leaned up against the railing, reaching out to caress Cersei's cheek. She tried to pull away but found herself unable to, the coolness of his fingers causing goose pimples to rise. “Aye, I did. I was never the perfect man. I realize that now.”

“Took you long enough.”

“Come off it, Cersei. I weren't even dead before you were causing everything to go belly up. We had twenty years of peace that got ruined in a single day.” he sighed, shaking his head. “the day you cut Ned Stark's head off was the day you lost the realm.”

_Ned Stark._ A name she'd not heard in years. His execution – Joff's idea – had been a mistake. Cersei was content to let him go north and take the black; he was neutralized and no longer a threat to her but was valuable for keeping the peace. “It's like I told him, Robert. When you play the game of thrones you win or you die.”

“Maybe. But you're playing the game now and what you call winning is gonna end up with you dying.” he mumbled, crossing his arms over his bulky chest. “what have you left? House Lannister, some Reach men, and a pirate shit who'll cut and run the minute he smells weakness. All of our – no, your – children dead...and for what? An empty crown.”

Her heart grieved for Joff, Tommen and Myrcella. She missed them every single day of her life; but it was fate. She knew that they would all die before her, the woods witch saying as much to her that day as a child. “I am the Queen now – and I will answer blood with fire.”

“Aye, you're Queen. But it's an empty title when you get right down to it. I was King for how many years? Where did that get me...a wife who hated me, children who weren't even mine and a boar through the gut.” he chuckled, his laugh grim and harsh.

Her cheeks flushed red with anger. “Jaime is a better man then you ever were. I'm glad the children aren't yours!” she spat. This only made Robert smile sadly. “You haven't been a man since that northern bitch died. I married a corpse!”

“You're right.” he nodded, “you did. I did a lot of things that I regret. How I treated you and the children are some of them. But now everything that's happened or will happen is for you to decide, Cersei. You can't blame me anymore.”

Scoffing Cersei turned back to glare out into the city. Robert again placed a cold hand upon her, this time the shoulder facing him. “Maybe you'll do what Aerys failed to do and rule over a city of ashes. Is that what you want?”

“I am the Queen!” she shouted, smashing her hands on the rails. “Westeros will bow to me or they will burn. It is that simple, Robert. I'm only sad that I didn't realize this sooner.”

“You might think it's that simple, but I think in the end you'll find out it's not.” Robert nodded as he walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing in Cersei's mind. _Cross over and drink and whore and hunt all you want. Leave me to rule as you should have long ago._

* * *

“My Queen?” came another voice from behind her. This one she knew instantly was Qyburn. He was about the only one she dared to trust in times like these – with his control of the spy network and his knowledge of wildfire he had helped secure her position.

“Yes, Qyburn?” she sighed, waving him towards her. The man approached with soft and gentle footsteps, his face a tight smile.

“Some of my little birds have found something I do believe could prove a...significant blow to the Targaryen forces in terms of their resolve.” he clasped his hands together, procuring a scroll from a sleeve.

“What is it now?” The orphan boys and girls that Varys had once used were now mostly in her employ. Some few still served the eunuch, to be sure but they were not a threat – and the others did their part by giving them false information.

“It comes from the North. Apparently a new decree has been sent from the King in the North Jon Snow.” he answered, opening up the scroll and glancing to it.

She scoffed. The North – a desolate shitpile of a kingdom – had once again risen against her and declared Ned Stark's bastard as their King. She was inclined to let them have their frozen tundra and be done with it – but with Sansa Stark serving as Winterfell's lady she would not have it.

_Sansa killed Joff. I will have her head._

“It seems...that Eddard Stark was lying all of these years. Jon Snow is, according to this not his bastard son at all.” Qyburn stated plainly.

Now that was interesting. “Then why claim him as such?” Bastards were never given the best of treatment – as creatures of lust and lies – so why would a man so obsessed with honor as Ned Stark condemn Jon Snow to a life of discrimination if he were not one?

“That is not the most interesting thing. According to this declaration which was sent to all of the northern houses he is the son of Lyanna Stark and -”

“Rhaegar Targaryen.” Cersei's mind rang with the news, piecing together the realization. “Of course...Why else would he bring the Stark girl all the way to Dorne unless she was with child?” Her mouth was agape, her surprise evident by the way her body stiffened.

“The declaration, signed and witnessed by several major lords including Sansa Stark also says that Prince Rhaegar annulled his marriage to Elia Martell and named Jon Snow his legal and lawful heir.”

She brought a hand to her mouth, trying to conceal her shock. _The great Ned Stark, a better liar then we gave him credit for._ “Ned Stark claimed the boy as his own to protect him from Robert. If Robert knew that Lyanna had a child with the prince...”

“..he surely would have killed the babe.” Qyburn nodded. “Also the declaration claims that as a result of this Sansa Stark and Jon Snow will wed, likely to ensure he has the Stark name behind him after all.”

Cersei nodded. It was a sensible decision on his part – with the exposure that he was not Ned Stark's son it would damage his claim in the eyes of the northern lords – but still unacceptable. “I want Sansa Stark dead. If this bastard thinks to resist me I'll have his head.”

She allowed a childish giggle to escape her lips as the realization flew into her mind. “I do think that dear Daenerys should see this declaration, don't you Qyburn?” By revealing that her brother had a secret child with Lyanna Stark and named him as the rightful heir it would likely damage the morale of the girl's cause.

“It does also say that Jon Snow has no want or desire for the Iron Throne and will renounce his claims when the war in the north is concluded.” Qyburn finished, placing the scroll back into his sleeve.

“Smart boy.” The Iron Throne was a treacherous lover – one wrong move meant the end of everything. “Even still this will create a crisis in the Targaryen ranks. Sewing discord on this level will help us in the long run. See to it, Qyburn.”

As her Hand shuffled away Cersei looked to the mid-day sun. _What harm could Lyanna Stark's ghost do us now,_ she had once said to Robert.

_Well, what harm could her ghost do to the Targaryens now?_

* * *

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Northern army reaches the Last Hearth. King Jon and Queen Sansa concoct a plan to defeat the Night King - they hope.

The gates of the Last Hearth crashed open as a stream of cheering wildlings and Umber small-folk alike rushed out to greet their rescuers. Sansa, Brienne, Davos, Tormund and several of the other lords rode in the front of the procession, the archers and horsemen following behind. Behind them the vast majority of the Stark army fanned out across the plain, setting up barricades and shield-walls in case the Others returned.

The battle had been brutal and fierce, just as Sansa anticipated. The wights crashed against the shield-walls by the hundreds, roaring, screaming, tearing and biting. But the soldiers held; and for every one that fell another shield went up to take his place.

It was a slow going, the infantry marching ever so deliberate so as to be able to push the wights back. As they advanced the archers coming up behind the shield-wall peppered the enemy with flaming arrows, all the while as the Brotherhood and other assorted cavalry lobbed jars of pitch into the ranks.

Above them Jon and Rhaegal made deliberate passes, roasting hundreds of the wights with every thrust. Sansa had watched the battle unfold, her stomach filled with dread and trepidation that only grew worse with every charge.

After reaching the gates of the fortress the wights had suddenly turned and ran, fleeing back towards the Gift. Many of the men had wanted to pursue them – the rush of victory was strong even as she rode into the castle – but thankfully the commanders, including Davos and Brienne had been able to keep them in line.

She knew that the Others were trying to lure the army into fighting on their terms at the ruins of the Wall. As she dismounted, the horses being tended to by eager stable boys she was greeted by Dim Dalba and Harmond Umber.

The wildling nodded his head, a grin upon his face. “Lady Sansa, this is a surprise. Here I thought we was going to have to wait out the whole two years.” All around them the Free Folk and Stark forces mingled about with the Umber troops and wildlings who'd been sheltered inside.

She smiled softly as Brienne stood by her side, hand as always upon her blade. “Of course not, Dim. The North will not forget any of it's native sons.”

The boy lord of House Umber offered a bow to Sansa, his greeting proper and noble. “Lady Stark, I knew that you and the King would not leave us to fall.” he beamed, rubbing his hands together, “now, we can beat back those kneelers and win the day!”

“Kneelers?” Sansa raised a brow, bemused.

“I may have taught the little lord a thing or two.” Dim admitted, laughing.

Above them Rhaegal roared while Jon brought him down for a landing just beyond the walls of the castle. “I'll never get used to that,” the wildling man quipped as he shook his head, chuckling.

“Only the North could master a dragon!” Harmond meanwhile was overjoyed that the King was landing Rhaegal here. “I want to see the dragon when the King has him settled! Please, Dim?”

“Now, we'll have to see what the King says, little lord.” he laughed, walking over to Tormund, who had recently joined the group, and hugged him tightly.

“Good ta see ya, Dim!” he beamed, waving a hand around the courtyard. “You've got your own fucking castle! It's nice, isn't it? I knew the kneelers did something right.”

“THE KING IN THE NORTH!” came a cry from outside the gates as Jon entered, his cloak billowing behind him. The soldiers and small-folk alike cheered him, many throwing flowers and rice upon him as he smiled, waving to them.

“Your Grace!” Harmond beamed, repeating his bow. “May I see your dragon, please?”

Jon laughed, ruffling the boy's hair. “In a bit, Harmond. Now, if you don't mind – let's meet in the Great Hall. We've a plan to take care of. Dim – if you want to help Lord Umber start getting the Free Folk ready, we can start getting them south.”

* * *

Inside the Hearth Hall the commanders met. Jon sat at the head of the table with Sansa at his side – as befitting a Queen and King. Tormund, Davos, Beric and The Hound claimed the other seats. Jon had delegated the other commanders and lords to help unpack all of the supplies needed to form a solid barrier around the castle.

A map of the North was laid out before them as Jon pointed to the Wall. “The Night King wants us to go to him. The Others are likely keeping their strongest wights as well as their own magic back so they can take us by surprise when we rush them.”

Davos folded his hands onto the stone table. “We can't simply play chicken with them either, Your Grace. If we try to wait out creatures of snow and ice – it won't go well.” he frowned, biting at his lower lip.

Sansa nodded, “Ser Davos is right. We can't wait them out – we have to bring the fight to them, but not the way that the Night King wants. We have to do what we can to surprise them.” she stated firmly. Trying to surprise the Others was not something that could be done, she knew – but it was better then simply doing what the Night King wanted.

“You can't surprise 'em, Sansa.” Tormund scoffed, kicking his feet up on the table. “That's how they get you. That's how they got us before Hardhome. They would pick off small settlements or camps. Slowly creeping their way across the land and gathering us all together for one big attack. It's almost the same here – only we're not taking the bait they're offering for now.”

“And how did the Free Folk react to the attacks?” Sansa replied, her gaze fixated on the wildling.

“At first we didn't think much of it.” he shrugged, belching. “Tribes fight tribes all the time. But then we found a few survivors that said it weren't no tribal warfare. They said the white cold would wash over their camp or village and that night the people would start...vanishing.”

“They obviously aren't doing that here.” Jon quipped, returning his gaze to the map.

“The point that the King is making stands – we can't just rush into this. March or run and we'll be slaughtered.” Beric scowled, his eye fixated on the stone floor. “We have to go about this another way.”

“We have to find a way to surprise them. As best as we can, at least.” Sansa nodded, turning her head to Jon and offering him a supportive smile. He was clearly in pain and was being overwhelmed by stress – she could tell by how tense he sat.

“What if we hit them from the sides? Send half the army east and the other half west.” Davos offered, pointing to the map. “The Others will split their wights and chase down both ends. Then the King can use the dragon and roast 'em while they're scattered.”

“Could work. But that's a big gamble, Onion Man.” Tormund chuckled, picking crumbs from his beard. “Don't forget that we tire and slow down. They don't.”

“What we need to do is draw out the Night King. It's clear he won't come to us so he wants us to come to him.” Jon sighed, rubbing his temples. “But we have to find a way to get him away from his horde. If I take Rhaegal in there again -”

“Then it'll be a repeat of what happened at the Wall.” Sansa finished for him.

Silence came over the room, the only sound being from the crackling of the braziers. Jon tapped his fingers on the map roughly, the irritation and anxiety causing havoc in his mind. Sansa squeezed his leg softly as she was wont to do, to remind him that he was not alone.

“There is one thing we do know about the Others,” Jon admitted, breaking the silence. “we know that the Children of the Forest were the ones to create the first of them including the Night King.”

“Aye, yer brother told us as much.” Tormund nodded, “but how does that help us? No one's seen a child of the forest in hundreds of years.”

“We don't even know if they exist anymore.” Davos added.

Jon sighed, leaning back into the chair. “There has to be some way to find them...”

“Wait, I think I might know..” Tormund had suddenly taken his feet down from the table and was staring towards Jon with a raised brow. “D'you remember when we went to Hardhome?”

“How could I forget?”

“Point is, when we were there I got to talking to some of the men,” he belched, “and they were saying that they had heard of a secret underground grove of weirwoods, untouched by human hands and tended by the Children.”

Jon scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. “And how do Free Folk legends help us?”

“They told me that one of 'em had found an entrance, frozen solid by ice and snow. Their swords couldn't break through – twas almost like some kind of enchanted ice.”

“Tormund...” Jon sighed.

“Hear me out, lad! When have you known me to lie? Besides, what chance we have got? We could do nothing and wait to get turned into wights or attack and...get turned into wights faster. If there's a chance, I say we take it. Anyway, they explained that the cave they'd found was supposed to be near the Bay of Seals.” he grinned. “Sound familiar?”

Jon shrugged. “Bay of Seals...that's near Eastwatch, if I recall.”

“And you've got yourself a dragon! Do you understand what I'm saying now?” he snickered.

“Are you suggesting that the King go to Eastwatch and chase after this...legend?” Davos asked, incredulous. “Your Grace, we've a war to fight.”

“I agree with Tormund.” Sansa stated, causing all – including Jon – to look at her with surprise. “Think about it. The Children created the Night King. They may be the only ones who could know how to stop them. It's worth the risk, I think.”

Jon nodded to her, a small smile playing on his lips. “Alright. Tormund and I will make for Eastwatch in the morrow. Sansa will be in charge of the defence until I return – you will obey her and respect her as Queen.” he stated, rising to his feet. “She will coordinate with the others about how best to manage the task at hand.”

* * *

Davos, Tormund, Beric and Brienne filed out of the room as Jon went to stare out of the window. Sansa hopped up onto the table, sitting down on it facing towards him. “Jon,” she whispered, beckoning him with a crooked finger.

“Are you sure about this?” he whispered as their lips crashed together, Sansa's hands running all over his body. “This could be nothing but a wild goose chase..” he sighed as she rested her hands on his chest.

“I know,” she admitted, breaking their embrace. “But it might be the only chance we have to stop them. And besides...you never shy away from a challenge.”

Jon laughed, wrapping his arms around her waist. “That's why I married you.”

She laughed, her hands running through his hair. “I...I hate the fact you're leaving again. But I know you have to, as always. And this time..”

“..this time it's to hopefully end this.” Jon finished for her, relishing in the heat of her body. As he did, he noted that her hands were trembling slightly. “Are you alright, Sansa?”

She sighed, bringing her hands away from his head and to her stomach. “I...I've missed my last two moon bloods, Jon.” she mumbled, a look of shame coming over her. “N...nothing is certain yet but..”

Jon knew at once what she meant. He took her hands in his own and kissed them. “then it means we're going to be parents. Maybe.” he smiled at her, his breath growing slightly ragged.

“But this world Jon? Is it right to bring a child into...into this?”

Jon shook his head. “There is always something worth fighting for, my love. You, Bran and Arya are my causes. But you knew that already.” he snickered.

“Before you run off to play the hero again,” she teased, slapping his arm slightly. “I don't want to wait anymore. I want us to be husband and wife before the old gods – and in the eyes of the North. Last Hearth has a godswood – let's make use of it. Tonight.”

Jon raised a brow. “But we agreed -”

“Jon. This changes things – you won't be with us for the whole of this battle.” she smiled, nuzzling his neck. “And I want us to make our love open and true – not just a betrothal.”

“Okay, Sansa. Okay – tonight.” he grinned, capitulating at his wife's radiant smile. “I can never say no to you. It's my one weakness.”

“Jon!” she laughed, scoffing aloud. “I'd say it's your one strength..”

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran deals with yet another vision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am a bit nervous about this chapter because it was based on my extrapolation on the creation of the White Walkers/Others from the show and what we know from the books. So I hope you guys enjoy. :)

“Who are you?”

Bran found himself in a place he had never traveled before in his many experiences with the weirwoods and green-sight. Everything that the three-eyed raven had taught him came rushing into his mind, each and every memory being brought to the forefront of his thoughts almost as if they were being examined. A roaring pain echoed through his head as he grasped at it, trying to will himself out of the vision.

He could not. Each and every memory – from the earliest sights of creation to Jon's assault on Last Hearth – was read by this...entity. The pain was searing – the intensity of it almost able to block his other sensations – and Bran tried to scream but found no sound would emerge from his mouth.

He pleaded to himself. _Make it stop! Please!_ Then as abruptly as the pain began it was gone, his thoughts clear and ordered once more. Finally the world emerged from blackness and he found himself somewhere else. Somewhere new.

He appeared to be in the middle of an underground cavern, sitting beneath a grove of weirwood trees. The roar of rushing water echoed through the walls of the cave as he stepped through the flora scattered about the trees. Small earthen huts – perhaps a dozen if that – were strewn about the cave, all of them showing signs of habitation.

“Who are you?” Bran asked again, his voice echoing around him.

He felt a hand upon his shoulder and he spun around, coming face to face with the weathered face of one of the Children of the Forest. This particular Child's skin was cracked and appeared to be flaking. Its leaves were withered and grey and it walked with a noticeable hump.

“You know the answer to that, Brandon Stark.” it smiled, teeth weathered and chipped. In its hand it clutched a weirwood branch as sturdy as any sword, using it to stand and walk.

“I don't. I thought the Children were all dead.” All of his visions and training had told him Leaf and her sisters were the last of them – and they were dead, taken by the Others. “Leaf and the others -”

“...gave themselves willingly to protect you. As did the last three-eyed-raven. Just as was foreseen. But we are not all gone – most of us are, but there are...remnants that yet live.” The Child used the cane to gesture about.

“You...keep the trees?” Bran pointed to the weirwoods; all three of them massive, reaching almost to the ceiling of the colossal cavern. “By yourself?”

That earned him a slight titter from the Child; it was laughing, he realized. “No. My time among the races of this world is slowly ending. The younger of us keep the trees now.” Around him Bran saw several other Children – appearing much healthier – stopping to watch him, their expressions curious.

“Do not fear them. We knew of your coming – that was what I was attempting to discern. You have my apologies for the pain caused.” it smiled, patting him on the shoulder.

“I just...didn't expect it. Do you know -”

“who you are? Yes. You are the three-eyed-raven. Walk with me,” it gestured. Bran followed after the Child as it trudged its way through the cavern.

The floor was mossy and overgrown, with various grasses and flora sticking out of pockets here and there. “this has been our enclave since the days before the Pact. Our seers once came here to reflect and meditate among the spirits – a place of seclusion and peace. Alas, that time has come and gone.” it frowned sadly.

“Thanks to us.” Bran sighed. The crimes of the First Men and the Andals both – slaughtering the Children and destroying their trees – weighed heavy on his heart.

“No.” the Child shook its head, the withered leaves crunching about it. “Our destruction was our own doing. The First Men may have warred against us but we ultimately helped bring about our doom.”

“How?” Bran furrowed his brows.

“You know how, Brandon Stark.” the Child pointed to a moss-covered wall upon which Bran could see carvings of miniature figures fleeing before a great storm.

“The Others.” he realized, his fingers running over the moss and tracing the image.

“The greatest enemy to all life. Not the First Men or the Andals after them. But our own creation.” the Child continued to walk, its voice growing hoarse and pained. “We underestimated the power we held over nature.”

Another set of carvings caught Bran's eye. This one showed the storm imposed over a series of trees, the imagery covered in ragged lines. To the left of the trees stood over a dozen stick figures, their eyes colored blue. “The wights.”

“The desperation in our people was palpable. The First Men kept coming and killing and burning. No matter how many we slew they came again. We destroyed the Arm of Dorne and they came again. We flooded the Neck and they came again. Finally, our seers gathered here – in this place – and agreed upon one dark act.” it lamented, taking a seat on a jagged series of rocks.

* * *

“How did they do it?” Bran sat beside it, his voice full of wonder and dread.

“The seers poured all of the powers of nature – consuming, draining, reproducing, nurturing, preserving – into the dragon-glass. Each seer gave a portion of its own skin to the first shard. You have seen the result.”

Bran remembered the vision of Leaf implanting who would become the Night King with a shard of dragon-glass. “But...it didn't happen here.”

The Child scoffed. “Not all seers approved of this. I did not yet I gave my blood because I had to obey. However I told them that the ritual would need to be done in the far north, away from this hallow ground.

We created a dozen. That was all we could spare – a dozen shards of dragon-glass changed and altered by our power and blood. That was enough.”

“But you couldn't control them.” he whispered, nodding.

“When the last of the dozen was brought to life in the far north we unleashed them. For a time they did well against the First Men, killing many and bringing them back as servants of the nature they had defiled. But soon they and their servants abruptly stopped and vanished back, far beyond their place of creation.” it idly licked its lips, brushing at some of its rotting leaves while it did so. “But the Pact was forged and there was no need to fear. We attempted to find them and return them to their rest but we could find no trace of them. It was as though they never existed.”

“Until the Long Night.” Bran knew immediately where the tale was heading. “When they came out of the Land of Always Winter.”

“The white cold swept across the land. It killed all in its path – giants, animals, First Men, us – without mercy. And we saw then that the cold was us. It was our rage, our hatred, our despair. We had corrupted our own creations before they were even given life. And the rest as they say is history.” it concluded, leaning on the weirwood cane for support.

Bran sat in silence a moment while he took in the Child's words. Even the three-eyed raven did not know the true events of the Others creation aside from what happened. Why it happened or how was a mystery he did not know. “But if you only made a dozen, that means -”

“There are more. In our despair we gave them the powers of creation. Even the coldest ice creates water eventually. The Night King – as the First Men call it – has the power to forge new Others. Ther existed a man called Craster, who would sacrifice his male children to them. Those children would be transformed.” its head hung in shame as it explained. “Others throughout history also sacrificed children to it. Those children became them.”

“But -”

“We must go.” it rose and smiled down at him. “The one you call Jon Snow will seek us out. We will give him the knowledge we possess on how best to defeat the Night King. And with the blessing of the spirits – he may succeed. For if he does not, there will be nothing left of Westeros save for ice.”

* * *

In an instant Bran found himself back in Winterfell's courtyard, his vision uncontrollably dizzy. Meera rushed to his side and grasped him, shaking at his shoulders as he struggled to steady his vision.

“Bran! Are you..” she whispered, planting a kiss upon his cheek.

“I'm alright Meera.” he smiled, caressing her cheek ever so softly. “Jon is going to the Children. I saw them.” He explained about the underground cavern and the seer he had spoken with. A renewed sense of hope dared fill his heart.

She smiled, leaning in and planting a long and tender kiss upon his lips. He kissed her back as tenderly as he could muster, continuing to caress her cheek. “I...I don't think we should do anything here, Meera.” he chuckled as they broke for air. “Somewhere more...warm?”

That got a laugh out of her. “You're a pervert, Brandon Stark.” she teased, throwing a wink his way as she loaded him onto his sled.

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gendry navigates his way through the tunnels of King's Landing and gets a nice reward.

The warm light of the torch flickered through the tunnel as Gendry hauled the barrel as best as he could, the weight of the thing making his arms feel as though they were going to explode. Pain shot up and down his body with every labored step – but he knew that the Dragon Queen would want to see his discovery.

In front of him the orphan boy nicknamed “Sneeze” - for obvious reasons – tried and failed to hold one in, the flame shaking ever so slightly as he lived up to his name. Gendry silently cursed himself for being stuck with this one; yet the boy knew the tunnels far better then he ever could. And he needed the light to get both of them out alive. _Too many boys've been lost down here_ , he knew from the tales the people of Flea Bottom liked to tell.

Sneeze claimed to be working for “the spider” - an individual who had a vested interest in seeing Daenerys Targaryen succeed. As a result the short and skeletally thin boy had taken to accompanying Gendry during his mappings of the tunnels. Thanks in part to the boy they had come across a cache of wildfire barrels, unguarded and appearing freshly planted. So, they had done the best thing to come to mind – steal one.

“Do you think the Queen will like it?” Sneeze chirped as he ambled down the corridor, the smell of mildew and decay filling the air. “I mean we got it and – achoo! - brought it back for her to see.”

Gendry clambered along behind him, the barrel clutched tightly in his hands. “It's...wildfire! What do you think?!” he muttered, his legs shaking wildly with every step. “Let's...let's stop and rest! My arms...”

The two stopped, Sneeze sitting down near a sewer grate while Gendry shoved the barrel on the ground and used it as a stool, his body continuing to scream out in pain. He'd been used to carrying heavy objects and working himself into a daze but he'd never been forced to carry barrels as far as he'd carried this one so far.

“Let's play a game!” the boy smiled brightly. “I'll ask you a question and then you can ask me one.”

Gendry rolled his eyes. “Anything to pass the time.” he agreed, his muscles twitching.

“Okay!” Sneeze croaked, shaking wildly as another sneeze flew from his nose. “What's your real name?”

“Gendry.” he grumbled. “And that's the truth, by the Seven or...the red god or whatever you want to believe.” His mind flashed back to his time in the Brotherhood every time he heard mention of Rhillor. It made a bitter taste come to his mouth as he recalled the red woman and her...intentions for him.

“Ask me now!”

“What's your real name then, Sneeze?” he sighed, rolling his shoulders as they crackled and popped painfully.

“Wyatt! Though – achoo! - no one calls me that anymore.”

_I wonder why,_ Gendry rolled his eyes in the darkness. “How long have you been in King's Landing, Gendry?”

That took him somewhat by surprise. “I grew up here. So my whole life.” he lied quickly, uncertain of the boy's knowledge. Since returning to the place of his birth Gendry had done what he could to put the events of his past behind him. The Red Woman, Dragonstone – the Brotherhood, all of it.

_You wouldn't be my family. You'd be my lady._ He ground his teeth together as he tried to suppress the memory – it was better to forget about it all. Even her. “How...how old are you, Sneeze?”

“You're – achoo! - lying!” the boy giggled, playfully kicking some dirt – at least he hoped it was dirt – towards his direction. “I know you left and came back. That's why you always look so lost when you go down Gin Alley!”

“You've been following me?!”

“I'm eight. Though everyone – achoo! - thinks I look smaller then that.” he smiled, ignoring the question.

Gendry felt a flush of embarrassment washing over his face. Of course he would be followed – everyone in King's Landing was followed. Be they highborn shits prancing around in the Red Keep or commoners like him. _Especially bastards like me._ “Let's go,” he grunted, rising to his feet and picking up the barrel. “get this back to the Mud Gate and be done with it.”

The boy nodded, scrambling off down the passage. Gendry plodded after him, his mind still awash with the memories of his past. He wondered about them all, in truth – Arya, Davos, even the red woman. Where they were, what they were doing – did they still live? All the thoughts raced through his head as he tried, ever so desperately to take them out.

_The brotherhood didn't care about you,_ he told himself. _They sold you to the red woman as though you were a sack of shit. The red woman wanted you for blood – and Davos wanted you to spite the red woman. She cared, though._ He ignored the rising pain in his arms and trudged along, Sneeze keeping slightly ahead and waving the torch about himself.

_She cared and you let her go, bastard._ It was perhaps the biggest mistake of his life, leaving Arya Stark behind. She was perhaps the only one in his life who ever cared about him for who he was – not for what he represented or what he could do for her.

He wondered about her – did she ever make it back to Winterfell? Is she alive, married to some old codger with more ass hair then brains? The thought of Arya Stark in a dress acting as a maiden made him laugh. If Sneeze noticed the boy said nothing, much to Gendry's relief.

“We're here, Gendry!” he shouted, clambering happily up a set of stone stairs.

_Finally._ He hauled the barrel gently up the stairs, smashing it down on the cellar floor with an audible crash. “Thanks for the help, Sneeze. Tell your spider the Queen prolly appreciates this.” he mumbled as he clambered up the stairs to the main floor of the inn.

* * *

Daenerys, Tyrion and Grey Worm were sat around the same table in her makeshift command post, an unfurled scroll laying on the table before them. “I do not understand, Khaleesi.” Grey Worm broke the silence, his eyes darting to and from the papers. “Is this not good? To know you are not the last dragon?”

“It's a lie, nothing more. My dear sister is trying to undermine your cause as Queen.” Tyrion smiled, nodding towards her. “She's growing so desperate that dear Qyburn is starting to build his own imaginary world.”

Daenerys nodded, tapping her hands on the table. The scroll was being delivered to the entirety of King's Landing courtesy of the Red Keep – claiming that her late brother Rhaegar had a third child who he had named as heir prior to his death – a child that he had conceived with Lyanna Stark. A child who now ruled as King in the North.

“Tyrion's right, Grey Worm.” she shrugged, grasping the scroll and crumpling it up in her hand. “She's trying to defame both Jon Snow and myself with these falsehoods.” She understood why Cersei had done it – she was trying to damage the morale of the Targaryen cause. Claiming that a second Targaryen lived and had a stronger claim to the Iron Throne then Daenerys was a good trick.

_It won't work,_ she mused. _Jon Snow is a Stark, through and through._ Yet at the back of her mind, a small voice whispered in her ear. _What if it's true? What if Jon is Rhaegar's son? How else could he ride and master a dragon, Khaleesi?_ “There is no way Jon Snow is at all a secret Targaryen,” Tyrion chuckled. “The boy has ice flowing through his veins. Not a drop of fire -”

A knock at the door interrupted their reverie. “My Queen, the one called Gendry has returned.” one of her Unsullied announced.

_I will cross that bridge when the time comes. True or not_ – even though her mind firmly rejected the idea – she would not and could not worry about such petty gossip now. _We have a war to win._ “Welcome back, Ser Gendry.” she smiled as the boy entered the room. “I hope you have found success?”

The boy nodded, a small smile upon his face. “Aye. We did more then that, though. Found one of her stores. Got you a barrel.” he gestured to the stairs. “It's in the cellar.”

“A barrel of...wildfire?” Tyrion barked, the surprise evident in his voice.

“Aye. I thought it would be handy as proof.” he nodded. “Asked some of your Unsalmon or whatever they're called to bring it up for ya.”

As he spoke two Unsullied hauled in the barrel, placing it gently on the floor. Daenerys stared at the barrel with curiosity, a slender brow raised ever so gently. “Open it,” she commanded as one of the guards pried the lid off.

Tyrion edged cautiously over to it as the green liquid sloshed about inside. He then seemed to burst out in a fit of hysterical laughter much to the confusion of those in the room.

* * *

“Tyrion? Are you alright?” she asked, clearly confused as his sudden hilarity.

“This...this isn't wildfire.” he splashed some of the liquid out of the barrel. “This is water dyed green. Look! Wildfire is far more thick and viscous, like pitch or tar.” he snickered.

“Honestly. We found a big room of the barrels and I brought it from there. I swear I'm not lying to ya. Room looked like it was just set up, too. Sneeze and I found it.”

“And who, praytell is Sneeze?” the dwarf asked, folding his hands in front of him and grinning.

“Orphan boy I met. Said that some spider wanted him to help me.” Gendry shrugged.

“Ah, dear Varys – always looking out for us.” Tyrion chuckled. “The boy's done his job well and found something we did not expect. It seems dear Cersei is lying through her teeth – she's set up caches alright, but they aren't wildfire caches.”

“She's been faking them the whole time?” Daenerys exclaimed. _Leave it to a Lannister._

“First the lie about Jon Snow and his parentage and now this. Oh, dear sweet sister – you are truly desperate and without shame.” He waddled over to a nearby barrel and took out a large sack, the bag full to bursting with coins. “For you, Gendry. One hundred gold dragons as promised.”

Gendry took the bag, his hands trembling. “Never...never thought so much money could exist...” he mumbled, astonished.

“Stick around, lad. We still need more scouting done.” he smiled, nodding to Daenerys. “The boy is very useful, I do think.”

“That he is indeed. I would ask you to continue your good work, if it please you Ser Gendry.” Daenerys smiled towards him.

“If...if that's what m'lady wants.” he nodded, placing the bag on a small table behind him. “I've got nothing else planned.”

“Good! Grey Worm, find our newest scout some warm food and a soft bed. And a change of clothes if we can spare some.” she gestured to the eunuch.

The Unsullied nodded and gestured for the boy to follow him out the door, which he did, clutching his bag close to his chest.

“We lucked out on that one, didn't we?” she grinned at Tyrion.

“Oh yes. I think he'll go far in those tunnels. And beyond, if it so please the Queen.”

* * *

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron Greyjoy wants power. Old friends reunite at Dragonstone.

Euron propped his feet up on the desk, leaning back in the chair with a contented sigh. _My new kingdom is coming along rather nicely,_ he mused. The Hightower still stood defiantly against him but he knew that it would not for long. The last of the Lannister/Tarly forces had either left the city or been set upon and killed by his own men, just as planned. As if he would allow those mongrels to take any of his kingdom's treasures.

On the desk beside his feet lay several large books, their pages faded and ripping. He'd had them brought up from the deepest and most restricted parts of the libraries in the Citadel – the most forbidden and forgotten tomes of ancient lore that he could find. Those books were worth more to him then all of the loot and plunder his forces had been scrambling to steal. Leaning over he grasped one of the books entitled _Secrets of the Freehold_ and began to thumb through it.

The book was frayed and weathered, with many pages being torn or missing altogether. The book went into great detail about the pre-Doom culture of Valyria as told by a scholar of Westerosi origin who was permitted to visit the great empire. Most of what was contained within was boring droll – about the government and the dragon riders and other nonsense – but a particular section had caught Euron's eye.

As quickly as he'd put them up he dropped his feet down onto the ground and planted the book upon the desk. Reaching into the pockets of his jacket he pulled out a small dark pebble, wrapped tightly in cloth and laid it next to the book. This was his prize – this was what mattered. Even more then the books, then the Iron Islands – then Westeros itself.

“Soon, little diamond. Soon I will be able to unlock your secrets.” It was yet another artifact he'd found in the ruins of Valyria – more specifically, the most dangerous parts of the shattered peninsula. Euron remembered having to navigate through endless chasms and boiling lava fissures, only to find the black pebble buried in one of the walls of the ancient capital.

Looking up from the book and to the left-side wall Euron gazed upon his suit of armor, finally having been brought up and assembled by his men. The armor was Valyrian steel – pure black, with glowing red runes adorning it. He'd never worn the set before but once Oldtown was fully submitted to his control, he'd shed the garb of the ironborn and put on his new ruler's regalia.

The diamond was his greatest treasure. No suit of armor could compare. When he had the knowledge he needed – even if he had to sail back into Valyria itself to get it – all of his dreams would be realized.

The diamond was not a true gem but rather a magical relic known only to the greatest families in the Freehold. The few scattered bits of lore he'd been able to uncover about it claimed that once mastered it would allow whoever owned it to change reality as they saw fit.

_Was that how Valyria was able to master its dragons,_ Euron wondered. _Did they find one of these, master it, and change their people from goat fuckers to dragon riders?_ Of course, this was all pure speculation that Euron intended to find out.

* * *

 

A knock at the door interrupted his reverie and he hastily stuffed the pebble back into his pocket. “What?”

“M'lord,” came Lucas Codd's nasally voice. “Urgent news from the bay.”

“Fine Lucas, come in.” Euron grunted, closing the book and shoving them to the side. He had appearances to maintain after all. The man waddled in and bowed his head respectfully, hands folded over his massive gut.

“You said you have news for me?” Euron nodded idly.

“Aye, from the bay. Ships found a survivor clinging to a bit o'wreckage from Yara's fleet.”

Euron raised a brow. “And..?”

“It's yer nephew, Theon.” Lucas grunted, letting out a loud belch. “He's almost dead but still hanging in there. Thought you wanted to know, m'lord.”

Euron allowed himself a tight smile. _Dear Theon_ – Balon's only surviving son after Rodrick and Maron met their ends during his brother's rebellion. He was a weak, simpering boy – unworthy of the ironborn name. But still – family is family. “Tend to his injuries and bring him to me. If he dies before I command it Lucas, you die.”

Codd nodded and bounced his way out of the chamber. Euron licked his lips, delighting in the irony. Yara had escaped him – as had dear Aeron – but Theon? The poor boy would have no chance to run or hide.

He was in the new domain of King Euron after all.

* * *

“It is good to see you returned to us whole, Ser Jorah.” Varys smiled kindly, nodding to the seats in front of him. “Please, both of you – have a seat.”

Jorah Mormont and Samwell Tarly did as they were bid, Jorah eyeing Varys warily. His arm – what was left of it – burned with pain and agony with almost every move, but Sam had done a good job of binding it with herbs and oils enough so that there was no infection.

He studied the two men sitting at the table with them. One he knew as Jaime Lannister – the infamous Kingslayer – who sat with a troubled expression on his face, both hands folded atop the wood map of Westeros. The other was a man he did not know; a bearded and rather unkempt fellow garbed in a grey robe with bits of what seemed to be seaweed hanging from it.

Sam smiled nervously and settled in. The boy may be somewhat afraid and physically weak, but there was no denying that he was a skilled and gifted healer, scholar and historian. _A son my father would be proud of._ “I'm Samwell Tarly. Well, formerly Samwell Tarly. I'm in the Night's Watch. I was training at Oldtown when Euron Greyjoy attacked.” he nodded.

“We all know your name, Samwell Tarly.” Varys nodded, waving to the other men. “Of course you all know Jaime Lannister, formerly of King's Landing. This is Aeron Greyjoy formerly of the Iron Islands.”

“The Damphair?” Jorah knew the ironborn once Varys mentioned the name. He was apparently some kind of priest of their Drowned God – and he was well known for his fierce devotion and piety.

“Yes.” the ironborn grunted, his gaze remaining hard and indifferent. “I now must sup with green landers thanks to Euron's madness.”

“Oh, trust me.” Jorah grunted, scowling towards him. “you're not the only one who isn't happy to sup with more ironborn.” House Mormont had endured ironborn attacks for centuries – going back to when the Starks won the island in a wrestling match from them. “Your people attack and pillage Bear Island constantly.”

“Such is our way.” the priest responded dryly.

“Now now,” Varys tittered, raising a hand. “We all share common cause here. We are either supporters of House Targaryen or enemies of Cersei Lannister or Euron Greyjoy.”

Jaime nodded, sighing loudly. “I don't know why you asked me to be here for this Varys. Technically I'm still awaiting the Queen's judgement.” he shrugged.

“Even still Ser Jaime, you are a man of high status and certain infamy. I thought it prudent for you to help welcome our guests.” Varys smiled. “And Lord Aeron -”

“Damphair. I am no lord.”

“And both of you are able to contribute to the furthering of our common goals.” the eunuch finished, not phased by the man's interruption.

“Erm, about that...” Sam nodded, wringing his hands together, “I was supposed to train as a maester before going back to Castle Black to serve the Night's Watch. That's what my Lord Commander told me.”

Jaime laughed ever so slightly. “And who do you think commands at Castle Black, boy?”

“J-Jon Snow, of course.” Sam answered, a look of confusion coming over his face.

“A lot's happened since you left the Wall, Sam.” Varys nodded. He then went into detail about Jon's death at the hands of the First Ranger, First Builder and others followed by his resurrection – which was met with a snort of disdain from Damphair – and ascension as King in the North followed by the coming of the Others.

Sam's face grew pale as Varys finished his tale, patting the boy's chubby hand softly. “I...I know that the news was what you did not want to hear, but it is the truth. Now King Jon and Lady Sansa Stark fight against the Others in the name of the North and House Stark.”

“Well...what do I do now?” he stammered, looking nervously about. “Gilly and I...”

“Ah yes, the woman and her child. Rest assured that they are being taken care of. I have seen to it she and the babe are given food and good sleeping quarters as well as a hot bath.” Varys smiled.

“As I said Sam can stay here. He's a smart and gifted young man.” Jorah nodded, exhaling softly in a futile attempt to mask his pain. “Fuck the Citadel and the Maesters both.”

“Well, we can't just do that.” Jaime cut in, smirking. “Now that Euron owns the city -”

“He owns nothing.” Damphair shook his head, glaring to the Kingslayer. “He takes what he wants under the mistaken belief that it is his. He blasphemes and lies his way to the Salt Throne and now has claimed a city in the green lands. Why?”

“The Citadel has the biggest collection of books in the known world. Maybe he's looking for something?” Sam offered, trying but failing to meet the priest's gaze.

This troubled Damphair as his brow furrowed. “Euron speaks of magic and lost treasures. He is obsessed with ancient Valyria and it's technologies. If this green-land city has tomes on the lost empire then that explains why he wanted it.”

“We can't allow a man like Euron Greyjoy to gain secrets of old Valyria.” Varys nodded, his face grim.

“Don't mean to break the planning,” Jaime cut in, waving his golden hand, “but your queen is kind of busy attacking my sister at King's Landing right now. How can we attack Oldtown?”

“Then we will need to take the city and move for Euron.” Jorah grunted, rubbing his mangled arm. Sam noticed and reached over, patting him comfortingly on the shoulder.

“Ser Jorah needs some milk of the poppy and some...some treatment.” he stammered, pointing to the arm. “If possible a...metal hand like Ser Jaime.”

That earned a laugh from the Kingslayer. “Not golden. I have to stand out somehow.”

“Of course. Ser Jaime? Would you be as kind as to escort Ser Jorah and Sam to Maester Pylos?” Varys asked, nodding towards the door.

* * *

 

As the trio left the room Varys was alone with Damphair. “What will you do now, Damphair?”

“I will do as the Drowned God commands, eunuch.” the priest shrugged. “I would endeavor to return to the Iron Islands but Euron has total control there. I should know, given that I crowned him.”

“Well you are more then welcome to remain with us. Yara will return with the Queen when King's Landing is taken, and Theon...”

Aeron cut him off with a snort. “Theon goes to meet the God in his hall, do not make any falsehoods about it.” Rising to his feet he looked out towards the rolling ocean. “What is dead may never die. But rises again harder and stronger.” he mumbled as he filed from the room leaving Varys alone.

Varys hummed to himself, happily tapping his fingers on the table. He enjoyed the moments of silence he was able to get these days. _Especially given the events certain to come..._

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa are wed at the Last Hearth. They do some sexy times before Jon leaves in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: SMUT near the end. Turn away if you don't want eyes defiled by my bad smut writing!

Jon buttoned his tunic, smoothing the linen down his chest. Staring hard into the mirror he sighed, rolling his shoulders. The evening sun had begun to set over the Last Hearth; it gave the room a serene twilight, given the stone interior.

He was anything but serene however. In just a few moments he would be wedded – officially this time, before the assembled lords and captains of the North. Of course he was already wed in the eyes of the old gods. He and Sansa had made sure of that on the night of Daenerys's visit to Winterfell.

He would have one night with his wife before going off to look for the Children of the Forest with Tormund. Their destination was Eastwatch-By-The-Sea, and a raven had already been sent to forewarn its commander, Cotter Pyke. One night as man and wife, he chuckled. Then it's back to the war.

Since the army's liberation of the Umber fortress the Others and their army had pulled back to the New Gift and what remained of Castle Black, almost no wights attempting to break the shield-walls set up around the perimeter. Scouts had reported a few small groups easy dispatched but nothing else.

Jon grasped the tunic from the bed and slid his arms into it. It was embroidered with the direwolf of Stark – something he felt unworthy to wear even now. Sansa had made this for him, making sure to emphasize that he was a Stark; no matter his parentage or birth. A knock at the door roused his mind to the present. “Yes?”

“It's Ser Davos, Your Grace.” the Onion Knight replied.

“Come in, Davos. And no more 'your grace's tonight, please.” Jon laughed.

As Davos came into the room he smiled approvingly at Jon. “You look good. Like a man ready to be wed.”

“My stomach feels like we're stuck at sea, though.” he snickered, smoothing out the sleeves on his jacket. “any word from your wife?”

Davos had left his wife Marya at White Harbour; given the situation in the North he felt it unwise to have her go for Winterfell in case they failed. “Aye,” he beamed, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. “she is doing well and sends her love and hope for a speedy resolution.”

“Let's hope that this is leading us to the end-game, Davos. We meet with the Children, they give us something to defeat the Night King – boom. No more Others or Long Night. Just springtime for the North.” Jon shook his head. “Though knowing me, it won't be that easy.”

“Nothing worth fighting for ever is, lad.” Davos sat down in one of the empty chairs next to Jon's bed.

Jon inhaled sharply, biting down on his lip. Sansa's announcement of her missed moon bloods had both excited and scared him; excitement for the possibility of having a child of his own to love and raise with a woman he loved and fear because there was so much more at stake for him and Sansa now. “I've something to tell you, Davos.”

“Oh?”

“...Sansa told me after the meeting. She's missed her last two moon bloods – so she might be with child.” he whispered, trying to keep his voice low.

That got a smile from him. “Congratulations, lad. I mean it!” he beamed, walking over to Jon and hugging him as a father would. “Being a father changes every man. I should know.”

Jon returned the hug, feeling slightly awkward as he did so. “You're the only one who knows, so please...keep it between us.”

“Of course.” Davos nodded, releasing him from the embrace. “Well, shall we? I imagine they're going to be starting soon.”

Jon nodded, taking in one deep breath as the men left the room.

* * *

 

The wedding took place in the Last Hearth's godswood, home to a massive weirwood with a scowling face peering down at the assembled. It was a quiet affair; the only ones in attendance other then the bride and groom were Davos, Tormund, Lords Mazin and Umber and Brienne of Tarth. Jon had wanted the ceremony small – he was not a fan of massive celebrations for anything; even his name-days gave him dread knowing what kind of feasts awaited him.

Jon stood before the weirwood, the Lords Umber and Mazin at his side. The seven-year old Harmond could hardly be left out of the wedding given it was in his castle and the young lord Mazin had been by their side since before they'd reclaimed Winterfell – so Jon felt as though he owed him a place in the procession at least.

Davos stood in the middle of where Sansa and Jon would, playing the part of officiating the ceremony. Sansa had insisted on giving herself instead of having someone do it – and given her previous marriage to Ramsay Jon had insisted on it.

Tormund gnawed lazily at a chicken bone in the corner, complaining about the cold. _Some things never change..._

The footsteps quiet and fleeting broke the participants from their mindless gazes as Sansa walked into the godswood. She was garbed in a black and blue dress adorned with furs at her shoulders and neck. The direwolf of Stark was sewn into the centre of it.

Jon already knew how beautiful Sansa was but this dress...it took his breath away as she approached, carrying herself with grace and confidence. She smiled towards him, taking her place at his side. Just behind her Brienne of Tarth stood watch at the entrance to the godswood, keeping away prying eyes.

“Are you ready?” Jon whispered softly. His voice was quivering despite his attempts at building confidence.

“Yes.” Sansa nodded, her rosy cheeks blushing ever so slightly.

Davos smiled at them and folded his hands together, clearing his throat. “Who comes before the old gods this night?”

“Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Witnerfell comes here to be wed. A woman grown, trueborn and noble. She comes to beg the blessing of the gods.” Sansa announced, her voice steady and firm. Her eyes gazed towards Jon. “Who comes to claim her?”

“Jon, of the House Stark. The King in the North and Bastard of Winterfell. Who gives her?”

“She gives herself freely before the eyes of the gods.” she nodded as the pair grasped hands tightly.

“Lady Sansa – do you take this man?” Davos inquired, smiling towards the pair.

“I take this man.”

“It is done!” Davos shouted, turning to the witnesses. “Will all of you attest to the marriage of King Jon and Lady Sansa this night for any who may question it?” All present nodded their heads.

Jon leaned in and grasped Sansa's cheek, their lips gently meeting as they shared their first kiss as official husband and wife. “You're my Queen now,” he whispered to her as they walked arm and arm towards the interior of the castle. “no getting out of this one.”

Sansa snickered, leaning her head on his shoulder. “I wouldn't trade this for anything.”

 

* * *

The Lord's Chamber – given to them by Lord Harmond – was large and well kept, a large bed awaiting the newlyweds. Jon had demanded there be no feasting or bedding ceremony – only a quiet retirement for the pair to spend a night together.

Jon shut the door and proceeded to the bed, sitting down with a contented sigh. Sansa took a seat beside him, gazing into his eyes. “Well, we did it.” she smiled, brushing her hand against his cheek. “we're officially husband and wife.”

“King and Queen.” he smirked, kissing her knuckles gently on her free hand. Sansa began to unbutton his tunic, her lips tracing down his neck and chest causing him to sigh his body shivering slightly with every kiss she planted on him.

“Sansa...I love you.” he moaned as she fully unbuttoned the tunic, tossing it off to the side, her lips kissing each of his nipples roughly. “Now and always...”

She looked up, smiling at him. “you've saved me, Jon.” she whispered, helping him to the laces on her dress. “I thought I would be an ice queen forever – cold and cynical – but you've helped me to come back, slowly but surely.”

“You've done that yourself, Sansa...I'm just here to love you as you deserve.” he smiled, folding the top of her dress down, exposing her naked chest. He'd seen and kissed and touched her body all over before – but this time it was different. He leaned forward, placing gentle kisses on her collarbone.

She ran her hands through his hair as his lips worked down her chest, a hand palming one breast as he kissed a nipple, moaning slightly at his lips. “Jon....I need you..” she whimpered.

* * *

Jon brought himself away from her chest as she stood up, sliding herself out of the dress, taking her small-clothes with it. Jon removed his breeches at the same time, his erect cock throbbing painfully in his hand.

Sansa slid herself into his lap, Jon still sat at the edge of the bed. He gently placed his hands on her bottom as she glided him inside of her, her sex moist and smooth for him. Every time he entered her a wave of pleasure shot through his mind – married or not – but this time was different. Magical, in a way. She began to rock back and forth on his cock, her hands wrapped around his neck.

“Jon...oh, Jon...” she whispered, moaning into his ear. Jon savored every movement as his cock thrust inside of her, Sansa's shivers and whimpering only arousing him further. Sansa broke out in a sheen of sweat, her body shuddering as she felt her first orgasm of the night strike her.

Jon felt her sex clench around his cock and he let out a yelp of pleasure, whispering into her ear as she panted. “Kiss me, Sansa...” He needed to feel her lips on his. Every precious and fleeting moment they had tonight would be spent in passion, love, and bliss.

Their lips crashed together as Sansa increased her tempo, Jon's hands feeling the sweat run down her back. Every thrust, every whimper, every drop of sweat was more to him then anything in this world – no throne or riches or great achievements could match Sansa and how she made him feel.

As they broke their lips apart Sansa smiled at him, her body bouncing as she moaned in his arms. Jon squeezed her bottom tightly and she yelped – causing him to laugh. “Come back to me Jon...” she whispered, biting at his ear gently, “back to me and our child. Please...I can't do this without you..” she suddenly drove her hands into his back, squeezing his skin as tightly as she could as another wave of pleasure crashed over her body.

“Jon!” she cried as another orgasm washed over her, Jon letting out a drawn out moan of delight as his cock was clenched yet again by her walls. He felt a sharp buildup of pressure in his loins as Sansa continued to bounce as his orgasm grew closer.

“Sansa...I'm close!” he choked out, letting out a howl of pleasure as he spilled inside of her, his seed coating her walls as she collapsed into his arms, his body softening as he released.

They sat in each others arms like that all night – holding and loving one another as husband and wife.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon and Euron have a nice family chat.

Theon's last memory was the fire burning hotter and hotter against his legs. After that, darkness.

He awoke to the feeling of being dragged. As he pried one of his eyes open from the stir of death his body screamed at him in agony, the burning and searing pain of dragon fire radiating throughout his body. It hurt to breathe, to speak, to turn his head – even to cry. He smelled the roasted flesh even as the burning pain scorched his nose.

From what he could see – his eyes did not burn when he moved them – he was being dragged by two of his uncle's men through a long hallway. He had lead the attack against Euron's blockade of Oldtown knowing full well that death would be his outcome – but this was not death. This was a sort of twisted limbo; he lived but barely.

He heard the sounds of a door opening before darkness claimed him once more.

The next time he woke the pain was much more bearable. Turning his head he found himself laying in a bed, bandaged heavily across his body. The sensation was more of a throbbing pain in his arms and legs then it was before from the burning. He tried to speak, to move but found his mouth and legs bound. He was trapped like a fly in a spider's web.

A bald man peered over him as he thrashed about. The healer – Theon could tell from his chain – murmured something before a chalky liquid was forced down his mouth. Milk of the poppy, he realized as the darkness wrapped about him despite his feeble attempts to remain awake.

* * *

This time he found himself back on the deck of his ship, Yara by his side. He turned to speak and found he could not; maggots poured from his lips as she stared towards him, an eerie smile upon her own mouth. Before his eyes she began to melt, oozing out onto the deck. He felt a primal urge to run, to flee and hide somewhere – so he tried to run, only to find his legs melting as well. Struggling against the ever-consuming puddle of himself forming only made him sink into it faster.

As his eyes were consumed by the ooze he found himself underwater, sinking as though a stone. The light faded faster and faster the more he sank as creatures of all sorts swam by – he saw mermaids, sea lions, even fabled serpents and kraken. Finally Theon hit the bottom with a resounding thud – only to fall through the crust and plummet into an ever-burning lake of lava, searing his flesh and rending what remained of his soul.

“I am the storm,

you will bow to me,

all men will see,

pray you come to believe”

the words echoed in his mind, the voice of his uncle repeating the same words over and over again. The voice grew louder and more aggressive despite his feeble attempts to block it out until he felt as though his head would shatter.

That was when he awoke, screaming as he shot up from the bed, panting wildly, heart racing. Theon found himself free of most of the bandages save for some on his arms. Looking about frantically he saw he was in some kind of healer's hall, with beds and makeshift cots lining the floor. Black robed maesters ran to and fro carrying supplies and other things as men and women moaned and screamed in various stages of pain around him.

“Ah, good. You're awake.” came a gruff voice from his right. Theon turned to the source; it was an overweight Ironborn man with a face like a toad. “Th'king wants to see yah when you wake.” he droned, grabbing him with a meaty fist. “C'mon!”

The man lead him down another series of hallways as Theon kept his head down, mumbling inaudibly to himself. He tried to block himself out – to prepare for what was to come, as his uncle was not a kind and generous man to his enemies – and found that remembering his Reek persona helped somewhat; he had learned and come to embrace the pain of Ramsay's flaying.

_Ramsay is dead,_ his mind told him. _You are Theon Greyjoy – you are NOT Reek._ The pair climbed stairs and ramps until he was lead to a set of double doors, which the fat ironborn opened and shoved him through.

Euron stood by the large window at the far end of the room, next to a desk piled high with books. All around the circular chamber were bookshelves, pages and tomes scattered about the floors. His uncle wore a set of armour that was as black as night itself. Theon faintly saw red runes glowing on the pauldrons and greaves.

His hands began to tremble as he kept his gaze fixated on the ragged carpeting, waiting to be noticed.

* * *

“Sweet Theon,” came Euron's melodic voice, it growing closer with every word. “I am so glad to see you alive and...well, mostly unharmed.” A gauntlet cupped his chin and forced his gaze upward to stare into the soulless brown eyes. “We were afraid you would die – well, before I was able to see you again.”

“I h-have nothing to...to..to say to you,” Theon stammered, jerking his head sideways.

Euron laughed, patting his shoulder roughly. “Come! Sit down. Let's have a drink.”

Before he could resist Theon found himself seated at the desk, a glass of blue liquid sitting off to the side. “To the Greyjoys!” came Euron's voice, jovial and rich. “We do not sow! And to your King, Euron the First – the Conqueror of Oldtown!”

“One c-city doesn't make you a conqueror, Uncle.”

Much to his surprise his uncle laughed at him. “You're so right, my dear nephew. Look at my armor though. Please! I insist.” he whispered, grabbing and twisting his hand painfully, causing Theon to gaze at the red and blazing runes on the shoulders.

“Recognize it?” Euron asked, smiling gently.

“N...no.” he stammered.

“You know Valyrian Steel, don't you? Can't you tell a set of armor when you see it?”

“But..no one's sailed to Valyria and...and come back alive...” Theon felt his heart fall through his feet. Valyrian steel swords were rare and valuable enough; a full set of Valyrian steel armour? No amount of money in the entire world would be able to pay for it.

“Except me. You should know, Theon – I do the impossible all the time. It's why I am King!”

“Just kill me and be done with it, uncle. I'm r..r..ready to meet the Drowned God.” he sighed, head hanged low. Theon knew from the beginning that this would be his fate – and after having near-death experiences time and time again during his time as Reek, true death did not phase him.

“I don't mean to kill you, Theon!” Euron gasped, almost mockingly offended. “At least, not yet. I need you alive just as I did your sweet sister. Just as I do my dear brother Aeron. You see – our family will help me become more then just a king of a shit-infested backwater – but to claim the world as my playground!”

“You're mad.” What nonsense was he spouting?

“We're all a bit mad, Theon.” Euron rose to his feet, laughing wickedly. “Some more then others. Look at your dear father Balon!”

“You left your sanity in Valyria, then!” Theon barked, starting to rise to his feet but thinking better of it and remaining seated. “You killed our father. You're a kinslayer, oathbreaker -”

“I am all of those things, yet none.” Euron stated casually. “I am everything and nothing. I am Euron Greyjoy, dear nephew. And what I want – I get.”

“You need me, you said?” Theon sighed as more muscle spasms made him jerk side to side. “I'll die before I help you do w...whatever you want. Yara will be Queen, not you.”

“Yara? She's strong, but she's one fatal flaw – well, two if you count the whole woman thing. She isn't me.” Euron beamed – his smile malevolent and sinister. “I have a gift for you, sweet nephew.”

As he walked off to the side Theon began to squirm nervously. A sudden and intense jolt of pain shot through his back as he felt some kind of shock run up his spine, the intensity of it causing him to fall off the chair.

Euron stepped over him as he laughed. “The runes made mention of electric hands, but I guess they were telling the truth!” he beamed, removing the gauntlets ever so gingerly. “Oh, Lucas! Take Theon back to his bed.”

Squirming in agony on the floor Theon felt himself being lifted to his feet by the same toad-faced man as before. As he was lead away from Euron's chamber he watched his uncle wink at him, his brown eyes boring daggers into his skin.

* * *

 

 

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Tormund set out for Eastwatch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay on this one, folks! I was hitting a rut with how best to explain what is going to be happening with Jon's chapters after this. I hope the magic-y explanation given was satisfactory given what we do know about the Children. Honestly this is my weakest bit of this story in my opinion; I still hope you guys like it though. <3

They touched down at Eastwatch-By-The-Sea just over an hour after departing the Last Hearth, the memory of Sansa as well as her scent all over him. Rhaegal crashed to the ground, digging his claws into the stone and letting out a bellowing roar as terrified black brothers scattered off in different directions.

Jon hopped down from his back with ease while Tormund struggled to clamber off, his eyes wide and all colour drained from his face. “Well, what did you think?” Jon smirked, patting the big man's arm.

“...That was FUCKING AWESOME!” he bellowed, grabbing and embracing Jon in an awkward hug that made him feel as though he was being suffocated. He wasn't sure what Tormund would be like with Rhaegal but thankfully the pair seemed to like each other just fine.

Cotter Pyke was not far off from their landing, the stone faced ironborn watching with his arms folded over his chest. Aside from him the rest of the Night's Watch were all still scattered about, expressions ranging from fear to awe on their faces.

“Commander Pyke, it's good to finally meet you in person.” Jon nodded, extending a hand which he took, his grip as tight as a vice.

“And you, King Snow. I gotta say you give us bastards hope in the world,” he shrugged, gesturing the two men towards the docks. The port was deserted with no signs of any ship traffic or boats, the only things in sight being large amounts of crates and barrels.

“We've had to close the docks due to the Other attacks,” Pyke explained as they walked together. “I've got all of my men on rotation to keep the fuckers from breaching our defenses. So far we've only had a few large scale raids but still..”

Tormund jogged up behind the pair, nodding absentmindedly. “Well once we find what we're here for the fuckers'll be done for good!” he beamed, patting the commander on the back – an action that caused Pyke to scowl.

“Don't mind Tormund Commander Pyke, he's just enthusiastic.” Jon sighed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Pyke was not a fan of wildlings having been vocally against the decision he'd made to let them pass beyond the Wall, but unlike Alliser Thorne and the others he'd not mutinied as a result.

The buildings that made up Eastwatch seemed almost empty; Pyke explaining that the only ones remaining here were black brothers, all of whom he'd sent to the barricades or barracks set up nearest them. “I've half a mind to board them up but we need the wood.” the man laughed as the trio reached the edge of the docks, the waves of the Bay of Seals gently rocking against the wood.

“Well, here we are. Bay of Seals. The raven said you were looking for something out there.” he gestured to the open water. “There's a few small islands scattered about but nothing large enough for a cave.”

Jon nodded as he scanned the waters. There were some small faded outcroppings in his sight but nothing that so far caught his eyes in terms of potential Children settlements. “We'll have to go out and get a better look. Can you spare a rowboat?”

Pyke nodded. “Aye, I'll have my man Edwen row you out as far as you want. Don't think your beast is small enough to land on them bits out there anyway.” The ironborn shot a nasty glare towards Tormund as he walked away, barking commands as he went.

* * *

“Don't think the crow likes me.” the wildling laughed, shrugging.

“He'll get over it.” Jon smirked. “What's not to like, after all?” As he stared out over the silent and unmoving water his mind brought out the memories of his time with the Watch. A bitter taste began to bubble over in his mouth – sort of like when one ate bad meat.

_After all I gave to them, they repaid me with death._ Jon did not regret what choices he made – from letting the Free Folk through the Wall to evacuating Hardhome, even to hanging Alliser Thorne and the other mutineers. But he had dedicated his life to the Watch only for them to decide that they weren't worth his sacrifice and loyalty.

“I wonder what you'd think of all this...” he mumbled to no one in particular. Tormund looked at him and raised a brow.

“Y'alright?”

Jon nodded. “Just thinking of some friends. Long gone ones. Grenn and Pyp – even the Halfhand. I wonder what he would make of all this.”

“Dunno about your friends but the Halfhand? He'd kill the Others with one hand and throw us back behind the Wall with the other.” Tormund bellowed, patting Jon on the back roughly.

“Grenn died when you attacked Castle Black. He held the gate from Mag the Mighty.”

That impressed the man, who whistled out an approving sound. “Damn – he must have been some kind of fucking fighter. I'd love to have met him.”

“Pyp was a steward. Smart and funny – took an arrow through the throat from one of your raiders.” Jon smiled sadly. His heart ached for all those who had been lost – even those he was forced to put to the noose. Especially Olly. “I even...even think about Olly.”

Tormund nodded, his look turning slightly sympathetic. “Aye. The boy who killed you? I 'member him. We attacked his village in the Gift – think it was Styr and the Thenns, killed his parents and ate em. Fucking Thenns.” he grumbled. “I can't blame him for hating us.”

“I shouldn't have hung him.” Jon blinked, his eyes threatening to gloss over with tears. “But when I looked into his eyes – I saw there was nothing left. Just...burning hate.”

“You did the right thing. Had to send a message.”

The splashing from their right interrupted Jon's reflection. A grizzled greybeard with one eye stared lazily up at them from a small boat. “I'm Edwen. I'll row ya out to find yer fucking islands.”

* * *

The only sounds Jon heard were from the splashing of the oars as the boat rowed lazily out to the Bay.

For a man with one eye Edwen thankfully knew his way around the area well – he'd explained that he had only lost the eye a few years prior and was on the Wall for some fifty odd years before then. Both he and Tormund kept scanning the horizon for any sign of a potential island.

“Did your friends say where abouts the island was?” Jon asked.

Tormund shook his head no. “Just said in the Bay of Seals. Island, covered up by ice that no regular sword could swing through.” he paused, horking up a glob of spit into the water, “what if we get there, find the entrance and we can't chop through either? Be quite a shit chase, eh?”

Jon laughed. “Thankfully we have Valyrian Steel. Don't think your friends did.”

“Best we could hope for was some stolen steel!” Tormund shrugged. “Not like you kneelers and your fancy armor and weapons – though I suppose you did come through when it mattered.”

Jon laughed once more; Tormund always liked to go on about how the Free Folk's armor and weapons were of lesser quality then that of the south. Since becoming King Jon had done what he could to arm them better; giving them access to quality steel and iron – yet most of them still chose their old, dented and ancient blades over new arms.

“Not our fault your people like bronze better.” he smirked.

The rowboat came to a halt as it scraped up onto a small rock outcropping. The island appeared to be the size of a small room – with small patches of greenery sprouting from the rocky ground. “Here's the first one. Take a look see.” Edwen mumbled to the pair as they disembarked.

Jon dropped onto his knees and began to brush through the shrubs, finding mostly solid gravel and dried dirt as he crawled his way across. Tormund did the same but starting from the far side – which was only about a dozen steps away.

They picked over the island carefully, searching up and down several times and finding nothing.

As the boat launched back out into the water Jon brushed the dirt from his pants. “One down, however many to go.”

“Might be here for a while, then.” Edwen noted, resuming his gentle rowing. “couple o'dozen islands and landmarks in the Bay.”

The next few outcroppings and inlets yielded nothing for the pair either, just more snow and barely living shrubbery. They were exhausted and frustrated by the time Edwen rowed his boat onto the newest to search, an outcropping with a barely living tree wrapped in large, dead vines.

* * *

“If we find nothing here, I quit.” grumbled Tormund, digging into the vines with a huff.

Jon got to his knees and began his own search. Almost right away he saw something glow, hidden away under a large thorn bush. What would be glowing out here? He started to move his way past the bush, ignoring the painful pricks from the plant in the process.

After passing through the last thorn he found himself on top of a patch of smooth ice, over which was a hole leading deep into the earth. The glow he realized came from a small series of runes inscribed on the sides of the ice. They looked similar to the old language of the First Men but he could not tell.

“Here, Tormund!” Jon shouted, waving the wildling over.

As he jogged over to where Jon was kneeling Tormund laughed. “The mighty Jon Snow kneeling before an asshole!”

Rolling his eyes, Jon drew Longclaw. “Stand back. Let's see if Valyrian Steel can punch through.”

Rising to his feet Jon plunged the sword into the ice, shattering it with a resounding crash. As he kicked the pieces of the ice away Jon saw the hole was big enough for he and Tormund to crawl through one at a time.

“We'll have to go one by one. I'll go first.” Jon sheathed Longclaw and lowered himself into the darkness before Tormund could protest. As he crawled through the passageway Jon noted that the walls had changed from soil to a strange sort of earthy stone just a few meters in, giving the tunnel a sort of eerie glow.

After only a few minutes of crawling he reached the end of the tunnel, which opened up into a small room lined with the same earthy stone. As Jon climbed out of the tunnel he took in the room, quickly finding a hole in the ground leading deeper into the darkness with what appeared to be a ladder made of vines going down the sides.

Tormund brushed the dirt from his body as he emerged from the tunnel. “Where next?”

Jon nodded to the vine ladder. “You sure that can hold us?”

“I'm not sure,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “but we have to try.”

The vines were strangely hard as stone as Jon lowered himself into the hole, grasping the first of them as he began his descent. They remained fixed into the wall despite his weight showing no sign of decay or failure. As he lowered himself further down Jon heard the rushing of water growing ever louder as he went. “We're near a stream!”

The climb continued for a few short minutes when Jon reached the end of the ladder, dropping down into a cave opening, light rushing back into his eyes as he took in the sight before him. The cavern was circular, roughly the size of Winterfell's courtyard.

A small stream flowed from an alcove just off to Jon's right. As he walked into the area proper he saw several small figures – presumably the Children of the Forest – darting out from their small huts on the cave walls to stare at him curiously.

* * *

“The Jon Snow has come. Just as foretold.” a melodic voice called out from a grove of weirwood trees. Jon and Tormund walked over to the grove and found another Child, using a reddish cane to support itself. It was a dark greenish brown in contrast to the vibrant green coloration of the other Children they had seen and it's leaves were wilting and dead.

“You knew I would come?” Jon asked, peering about the grove cautiously.

“Of course. The trees see all.” it smiled, gesturing to a set of smooth rocks. “Please, sit.”

As the pair settled in Tormund gaped, eyes wide at the Child. “Free Folk haven't seen a Child in over a hundred years...”

That brought a laugh to its lips, the sound almost musical. “We have done our best to remain out of view of men, only appearing when we must.”

Jon exhaled softly, feeling the cool air of the earth around him. “If you knew we would come you must know why we'd come here then.”

“You seek to destroy the one your people call the Night King.” the Child answered, nodding.

“If we don't then all of Westeros will fall to the Long Night – and this time there will be no way to stop them like before.” he said, watching the withered leaves on its head.

The Child stepped forward, idly brushing a hand against one of the weirwoods and gently humming whilst doing so. “The trees know this. We know this as well. In truth, we've known this since the creation of the Others.”

“Aye, since you were the ones that made them.” Jon replied, his tone stern and harsh.

“You must understand the desperation and rage we felt during that dark time, if you are to understand how best to defeat the Night King. We gave the Others the powers of the Children – and that is the only way to undo the Night King.” the seer nodded to Longclaw. “Your blade is strong. Dragonsteel can and will slay the Others that it created. The children born of sacrifices. But the original dozen we crafted?”

“I'm going to guess not.” Jon brushed a hand against a weirwood softly. He felt a strange sensation as he did so – almost as though passing through a cold stream of water.

“The trees feel your anxiety, Jon Snow.” the Child gently placed a hand on Jon's arm. It was soft and almost mushy in texture.

“Will killing it end the threat?” he asked, gazing down at the seer. “The Night King, I mean.”

“If done properly, yes.”

Jon rolled his eyes. _More fucking riddles._ “Then how do we do it properly? Spells? Rituals? What is it?”

* * *

The seer squeezed his arm tighter. “You must go to where it was born and strike it down. Only then will the magic be nullified – and the dragonglass that fuels it will be vulnerable. Destroy the glass and it will be gone for good.”

Tormund belched loudly, interrupting their conversation. “What's so special about the fucking glass?”

“Where was it born, then?” Jon shrugged, choosing to ignore the belching.

The seer returned to a seat beneath the grove. “Far to the north. A weirwood tree long dead and frozen, surrounded by our ancient ritual stones. The First Men call it 'the land of always winter'. It was not always such, but it is now.”

“Are you out of your mind?!” Jon rounded on the Child, a jolt of fury shooting through his body. “The Land of Always Winter is hundreds of miles to the fucking north! The temperatures there are so cold that nothing can survive! Do you want me to just run up there and die, then? Is that your plan?”

Tormund had grown deathly serious. “Not even the heartiest of the Free Folk last there. You go up there, you don't come out.”

“You need not do anything of the sort, Jon Snow.” the seer smiled, motioning with a hand to its right. “The magic of our people is still strong here. Once we had the ability to travel across the land you call Westeros in an instant. The stones I made mention of are capable of storing thousands of years worth of magic within. If...if you so desire, we can use our power to create such a bridge for you.”

Jon raised a brow. “In case you forgot the Night King and its army is parked at the remains of the Wall. There's nothing in the Land of Always Winter now. If I go there who will defend the North?”

“It has the abilities we do.” the seer sighed. “It can sense when mortals are near the place of creation. It will not tolerate your intrusion and will come to stop you. That will be your chance to destroy it. Remember, the dragonglass within its chest MUST be shattered to stop it from returning.”

Tormund let out a low growl. “If we do this I'm with you.” he nudged Jon's shoulder. “Let's go to Always Frozen-Land and kick some ass. End this war.”

“What do we have to do?” Jon finally answered, his stomach twisting with dread.

“It will take us some time to prepare the ritual,” the seer said, rubbing its hands together softly. “so to properly create a bridge for you.”

Jon glanced to Tormund, who nodded his ascent. “Do it.”

As the seer shuffled off to prepare his mind swam with anticipation. _This will be it. Once we step into it's domain there's no going back – for the North. For Bran and Arya. For Sansa and our child. I will prevail._

_I have to prevail._

* * *

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei finally gets a visit from her husband to be. Though she may come to dislike his message.

Cersei rushed toward the balcony where the dragon that Euron Greyjoy controlled had crashed down. It roared at her and the various Lannister guards scattered about, all of them waiting with baited breath as it thrashed.

She'd sent word to Euron about the siege ages ago. _Now the stupid brute decides to show his face_ , she thought. A man like him would wait until everything was at risk – truly at risk – before swooping in to try and save the day.

As she came to a halt before the balcony her Kingsguard advanced forward as they went to draw swords. Cersei stopped them with a wave of her hand as she studied Euron atop the beast – he was not garbed in his typical ironborn fare; fare that made him look as though a beggar or lowborn street thug, no less but a great set of black armor. The armor glowed with red symbols on the arms and chest. He wore no helm so she was able to get a good look at the maniacal look in his eyes.

“It's about time you showed up!” she barked at him as he slid down to the ground, denting the balcony from the weight of the armor. “As you can see, without you and your beast the Targaryen girl has come to MY city.”

Qyburn had shuffled to her side as she glowered, the loyal Hand he was. “Lord Euron's presence is fortunate, my Queen.” Though Daenerys's troops had not advanced since Cersei's proclamation she knew that they were dispatching scouting parties into the tunnels to try and find her caches. _Let the girl try – she'll fail._

Euron shrugged, disinterest worn upon his face. “Of course my presence is fortunate, little man.” Laughing, he walked up to Cersei and caressed her cheek, the metal of the gauntlet cold as ice. “I missed you too, dearest wife.”

Cersei had no time for his games. “Get your beast ready and destroy the fleet! The girl's neglected to bring her own dragon so it should be easy for you.” To her disbelief Euron sauntered over to the railing and leaned against it, folding his arms to his chest.

“I don't think I will.” he said, casually spitting onto the ground.

_I'm tired of this insolence!_ “Qyburn. The horn!” she barked, throwing a wicked grin his way. “I thought you might say that, Euron. In fact I thought you would become a liability far sooner then you did. So Qyburn and I have taken the liberty of making a few changes to your ship while you were away.”

Qyburn and a few soldiers hauled in the dragon horn – the one stolen from Euron's ship and replaced with a carefully crafted fake. Viserion roared at them but took no action as one of the soldiers blew into the horn, the mournful wail echoing through the air.

“You'll find that the beast is mine now. The horn aboard your ship? A fake.” Cersei taunted, smirking triumphantly up at the beast – her beast. “Kill him,” she pointed towards Euron.

The beast made no move, merely staring towards her with a blank expression. A feeling of dread began to boil over in her stomach in the process. “Why isn't it working? Qyburn, again!” she demanded as the horn was blown once more.

A thunderous crash echoed from Euron as he clapped his hands together mockingly. “You know, it was a truly marvellous plan. Make your own fake horn and replace the real one? I applaud your ingenuity. Even you, Qyburn!” he sauntered over to Viserion and patted the beast on the side, allowing himself a laugh. “Only one slight problem with your plan – I knew you'd try it.”

“How could you know?!” Cersei asked, her voice on the verge of crackling. A boiling rage began to fester in her body as she squeezed her hands into fists. “This was done with the utmost of secrecy!”

“Oh, it was! But I am not like the men you are used to dealing with before. I am not Ned Stark or Robert Baratheon or Tywin Lannister – I know women like you. People like you, with dark and abhorrent reputations like my own. They are the ones who cannot be trusted.” he replied, his face plastered in a gleeful smile.

* * *

“Kill him!” Cersei cried, gesturing to the Lannister soldiers. Two of them rushed towards Euron, who made no moves as Viserion snatched one up in his jaws and devoured the man messily. The remaining soldier dropped his weapon and shield where he stood, petrified.

Euron sauntered forward, grasping the remaining man by the tunic and tossing him off the balcony with almost no effort. “Do you like the armor? Nice and strong,” he noted, the runes beginning to glow an angry red.

Qyburn narrowed his eyes. “I...I do think I am mistaken, Your Grace – but the armor looks almost like Valyrian Steel.” he whispered awestruck in Cersei's ear.

“Impossible! Valyrian swords are hard enough to find and more valuable then the wealth of any Great House. A set of armor? They all died with the Valyrians 400 years ago.” she snorted.

Euron brushed a hand against Cersei's cheek once more. “Not all. You forget, dear Cersei. The men who have traveled to the smoking ruins of Valyria have never returned; but I am not a man. I am Euron Greyjoy.”

“...If you seek to control me Euron, you're wrong.” Cersei growled, pushing his hand away. “I've wildfire caches scattered about the city. I'll detonate them and kill us all, you and your worthless dragon included if you DARE act insolent to me once again.”

“Oh yes, those.” he answered flippantly, strolling over to his dragon and climbing aboard. “I should mention that I had those replaced with water dyed green. A bit of playful payback for your trick earlier! Goodbye, Queen Cersei – the first and last of her name!” he shouted, blowing her a kiss as Viserion rose into the sky and soared away.

* * *

“He's bluffing!” Cersei screamed, shoving her way back into the throne room. _Her throne room – not Euron's, not Daenerys's – HERS_. She sacrificed to get here, waited in the wings and had to endure the putrid smells and sights of lesser men who were unworthy of both her and the chair. “Go check the caches!” she shouted, waving her hands frantically about.

Qyburn rushed off, carrying out her command. Her Kingsguard formed a protective circle around the Iron Throne as she sat herself upon it. “This is my city...” she mumbled, squeezing a hand so hard against the armrest that she cut herself upon a blade. “No one will take it...no one at all...Margaery Tyrell tried, where's she now?!”

The rage inside of her boiled over as she glared about. “Who else would challenge Queen Cersei, First of Her Name?!” she shouted, waving them forward. “Come forward and DIE PAINFULLY!” Ser Gregor had taken up his position by the dais – closest to her. He would always be faithful and serve. _He loves me,_ she knew.

She laughed, the muscles in her stomach aching as the gleeful cacophony flowed from her throat. “Look around! Robert, Ned, even you Father! None of you could shit in my shadow let alone rule as I have and will! The Lannister reign will last for ten thousand years! Not because of you but because of ME!”

Her vision being blinded by rage as it was failed to note Qyburn rushing back into the room. How long was he gone? She had lost track of time since Euron had left. Euron the snake, the treacherous sea serpent! “Tell me, Qyburn! Everything is fine, yes? The snake was just trying to sew division.”

The man appeared to be sweating profusely. “We are having all the caches checked, Your Grace...but so far at least two of them have nothing but green water in them. All the barrels with wildfire have been removed.”

_No. No, this was a trick. A ploy._ He was in league with Euron and her enemies. “SER GREGOR!” she cried, pointing to Qyburn. “He betrays me! Kill him!” The man tried to run as Clegane stormed over, knocking him down with a single shove.

“I have always been loyal, Queen Cersei!” he stammered, trying to break free. “I don't...I don't know how he found out about the caches! I swear!”

_Liar,_ she knew right away as the Mountain broke his scrawny neck with a single sickening twist. “I am the Queen. I will not be denied!”

No one would defy her. _Not now, not later, not ever._

* * *

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Others begin their second assault on the Last Hearth.

Sansa watched from the battlements as more wights rushed from the trees and smashed into the northern shield-wall, adding to an already chaotic scene unfolding before her eyes. Less then an hour ago – already a day since Jon and Tormund had left for Eastwatch – the Others had begun sending their armies toward the Last Hearth in frightening force. Sansa saw ice spiders skittering about the ranks, undead bears, shadow-cats and wolves alike fighting with the wights. But this attack was far more then what they had faced during their march to get here; Sansa knew that the Others were throwing everything they had towards their lines. _Why now_ , she asked herself. _Is it because Jon is not here?_

Thankfully the Free Folk women and children were safely away, having been loaded onto the spare wagons and sent south with an escort of some five hundred infantry. As for the battle unfolding in front of her it appeared that their lines were holding but she had already seen some sections starting to buckle under the sheer weight of the encroaching horde. More soldiers rushed to join the shield-wall for every one that fell and the Brotherhood and other cavalry were already lobbing jars and barrels of pitch into their ranks, explosions of fire raining down around them.

She clutched the battlement wall tightly as her stomach swam with fear and apprehension. Something had provoked them into attacking – but neither she, Davos or any of the others could figure out what. And while they had a large supply of arrows and pitch no amount of explosions and fire could save them should the shield-wall break. Sansa's heart ached; her thoughts turning once more to Jon; he'd vowed to find a way to defeat the Night King and end the threat. _Perhaps they are trying to destroy his chance? Was that why they attacked, to force him to abandon his search?_

Davos stomped his way up to her side. “We've got everything and everyone throwing what we have at 'em. We can hold them for a while but without that dragon, we're essentially sitting ducks, My Lady.” he sighed.

“We must hold as long as the King needs to end this!” she answered, trying to contain her fear. “He will see us through this. I know it.”

“My Lady, I understand your emotions.” Brienne said from her post at Sansa's side. “but we must focus on the here and now. Right now our forces cannot hold out long against the onslaught. King Jon has his dragon and that Giantsbane fellow – he will be fine.”

“How do you know that?” she grumbled, her hands trembling softly. _I'm losing control,_ she realized. _Without Jon here I can't hold us together._

As his wife – and Queen – Jon had demanded the lords obey her commands. And so far, she had relished in giving orders and being a power player for the North in its war. But now – on the front lines, with so many lives hanging in the balance – she was the naive young girl who went to King's Landing all those years ago.

Jon was the wartime leader – not her.

Regardless she knew that the defense of Last Hearth rested on her decisions. She turned her head to Davos. “Use everything that we have. Spare no jar or arrow, Davos. Everything the castle has – and I mean everything – we throw at them.”

He nodded and rushed back towards the field. Down below Sansa watched as the rows of archers continued to let fly their flaming arrows, the projectiles crashing into the sea of undead. Explosions of pitch lit up the forest as the screams of already-dead creatures filled the air.

“Jon will be fine, Brienne.” she whispered, as though trying to will herself of the fact. “he is strong.”

The lady knight nodded. “I know how you must feel my Lady, but your bro – husband – will make it through this. As I said, he has the power of a dragon and that Giantsbane fellow, who seems strong if...odd.”

Sansa smirked ever so briefly. She knew that Tormund fancied Brienne – something that annoyed the knight to a very strong degree. “Don't worry, he'll come back to you Brienne. Tormund's strong like that.” she teased.

“My lady!” Brienne protested, her cheeks red. “I do not think this is the time to discuss...that!”

Sansa returned her gaze to the field. The first two rows of the shield-wall formations were collapsing as the remaining three ranks desperately tried to hold. None the less she watched as the army began to give ground, the sheer weight of attackers forcing the men back.

She heard the thundering of horses as Beric and his men – including the ever eager Sandor Clegane – charged the crumbling lines on their mounts, tossing more jars of pitch into the ranks before retreating back into the shield-wall. But even with all of that, more and more creatures poured out from the Gift. Sansa thought she saw an Other; at least what looked like what Jon had described – riding atop a pale horse, a weapon of solid ice in its hand as it urged its troops onward.

_Can a man be brave if he is afraid?_ Sansa recalled Bran's words – which he had claimed Father had spoken of all those years ago. _That is the only time a man can be brave._ She was not a man but the same situation applied to her – she had to be brave. Not just for herself, but for all those around her.

“I have to be brave for you too, little one..” she whispered, hands gliding to her stomach. “Your father is out there now, and he's going to end the war. When you're older maybe he will tell you about it.”

* * *

A powerful blast of energy hit the Night King in the remnants of its human mind. The bridge is active. The conduit of its creators that was once used to transport them across the land they arrogantly claimed as their own – it was being used once again. Searching the network with its power it found the source – a hidden cavern off the coast. And it felt a familiar presence to go along with the hidden creators.

_The Jon Snow._

It felt no emotion. Fear, anger, confusion – these were foreign concepts to it. But long ago as a human it had felt them – and very small fragments of those memories lingered on the edge of its ordered mind. When it sensed the Jon Snow being somehow connected to the conduit those latent fragments had threatened to flare up and unleash.

But it was in control. Emotions were a tool of the First Men. The Others were above any such petty concerns. Gesturing to its army it sent them forward – all of them. It had waited long enough. The Jon Snow was attempting to access the creator's conduits. For what purpose it did not know yet. While it was busy doing that its allies would fall – their pathetic army washed away and the land frozen in perpetual twilight.

As its army rushed forward, the endless waves of undead pouring from the remains of the Wall it nodded to some of its fellow Others, sending them to join the fight as well. A single Other would be able to destroy most of the army – given that normal weapons of steel, iron and bronze could not touch it – but the Night King was not a fool and knew the dragon steel blades carried by those like the Jon Snow could destroy them. So it sent a handful of its fellows to command the horde. Not to fight, but command.

A purifying tide must have control to it. It was one of the main directives that it had been programmed with. Preservation, purification, creation. It could not preserve without purifying and it could not create without preserving. Still, the conduit's reactivation by its creators was unforeseen. It would need to deal with those creators and their meddling when this was finished.

All at once it became aware of what the Jon Snow was doing. It was going to the place of creation. To the magic stones. To the far North.

As a human it had once felt fear. That fragment had surfaced in itself as the realization dawned upon its mind. It quickly issued an order to the remaining Others, commanding every last one to join the horde and attack the First Men and their army.

It would deal with the Jon Snow personally.

* * *

 

 

 

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran tries to take control of Rhaegal and save the Northern army.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I suck at descriptive mind games chapters like this. I hope you guys enjoy despite it's short length. <3

Bran sat by the heart tree in Winterfell's godswood, Meera, Arya and Ghost by his side. His breath was ragged and shallow and he was shaking slightly; his arms trembling as he ringed his hands together. “Something's wrong. I can feel it.”

Arya laid a hand on his shoulder. “What is it? Is..is everything alright with Jon and Sansa?”

Shaking his head Bran sighed. “I can't be sure. But I feel the Night King. He..it...its not happy. Rage and anger...I can feel it even from here. It's all directed at Jon.” He'd begun having these feelings about an hour prior, the emotions erupting into him while spending time with Meera.

 _I hope she doesn't hate me too much,_ he thought – given he'd bit down on her lip as they were kissing from the force of the emotions. But she sat at his side, sporting a bloody lip with her hands wrapped around his chest.

“Is Jon doing something?” Arya asked, her voice shaking. “I mean, to make it angry?”

“I don't know. I can...I can barely sense Jon anymore. He's alive – but faint. As if he's beyond my reach.” Bran couldn't understand it – here, in the presences of the old gods and their ancient magic was where he was strongest. But despite his desperate attempts even he could not hope to reach Jon. “I know he went to the Children of the Forest out in the Bay of Seals, but after that...nothing.”

“We have to warn Last Hearth,” Meera said, her hands trying to calm Bran's shakes. “tell Sansa that something's wrong.”

“No!” Bran protested, his head roaring with pain, causing him to slam his head into the trunk of the weirwood. A ringing pain shot through his skull as he let out a groan of annoyance. “I...I mean we can't because it will take too long. The attack – it's already begun.”

Ghost let out a whine from where he sat, the direwolf looking up into the sky. _He misses Jon_ , Bran knew – _then again ,we all do._ The wolf was the last of his pack – with all of the others having died during their separate travels. Seeing Ghost again made Bran think of Summer, who had given his life to buy Meera time to get them free of the three-eyed-raven. It weighed upon him dearly – a single day not passing by without thinking of Summer and Hodor and Jojen.

“I...I think I have an idea. But..I'm not sure.” It was tremendously risky but Bran had been able to sense the presence of the dragon Rhaegal, still flying over Eastwatch By the Sea; he had been left there while Jon and Tormund had begun their search.

As a skin-changer Bran had warged into humans and wolves before – and had heard and seen those who could warg into animals such as birds, boars and even fish – but a dragon? Even from where he sat the sensations emanating from the mind of the beast was almost overwhelming; as though a volcano constantly erupting.

“You're not thinking of doing what I think, Bran!” Meera protested, shaking his shoulders. “Warging is one thing. Into beasts of this world, even of men – I've seen you do both. But a dragon? Dragons are alien to Westeros, to the world itself. If you try this...”

Bran leaned over and kissed her, a hand running along her cheek as her face flushed red. “Trust me Meera,” he whispered, causing her to whimper in his arms. “the dragon can help defend the Last Hearth. Give Jon enough time to find what he needs and leave.”

“Bran's right, Meera.” Arya nodded, wiping her eyes softly. “We have to do something to help – if the battle is as heated as he says then the army can't hold out forever; we have to buy them enough time to draw the Night King out so Jon can destroy it.”

“Bran's already given up so much! Where does it end, Arya?!” Meera slumped, her eyes welling with tears. He and Meera had spoken of their plans to wed; be married in the eyes of the old gods and, politically tie Winterfell and Greywater together in bonds of matrimony. “When can he live a normal life...a life with me?”

Arya smiled, wrapping her arms around the girl's shoulders. “I know Meera. But if Bran doesn't do this there might not be a life for any of us.”

Closing his eyes he focused on the image of Rhaegal; the mighty dragon's scaled body, its large wings, the inferno it expelled from its mouth. On the edge of his mind he could sense the beast's agitation at his probing but Bran had no choice. If I don't do this then the North – and all of Westeros – is doomed.

* * *

He pushed himself into the dragon's head, navigating over the great fissures of lava and heat that made up its thoughts. The beast's own mind thrashed at his intrusion, trying to throw him out with its own powerful brain – the mountains erupting in a cascade of lava and hatred – to overwhelm Bran. The pressure and pain he felt was intense; as though being stabbed by a thousand hot knives. Still he endured, refusing to give ground.

As the torturous pain continued ripping through him Bran once more shot into the chaotic din; trying to gain full control over the beast. He could almost sense the physical body thrashing wildly in the air, expelling fire and screeching violently at his presence. It washed him with hate, anger and fury – the thoughts of the dragon being single minded; _kill, devour, destroy._

Bran could almost feel it; the center of its mind. A verifiable maelstrom of emotions. He would have to navigate through it so as to fully control the dragon's skin. The wall of emotions rushed at him again, doing its best to force the alien presence from its core.

Bran squeezed the tree tighter, his physical body drooling onto the floor. He thought of positive things – of his family, of Jon, the North, of Ghost and Summer and their direwolves, of playing as children in happier times, his father's smile, his mother's hugs – and slowly the wall began to ebb. He thought of Meera; the woman who would be his wife and of Sansa and her unborn child, his first nephew or niece. Of an endless spring and summer free of the Others – of peace. He threw those thoughts like rocks, constantly bombarding the wall with them.

Finally he saw the cracks begin to form as parts fell away and chipped, so he threw harder and faster towards those flaws. Eventually he saw the wall begin to collapse, the anger and rage turning to dust before his eyes.

With that Bran was able to enter the core of Rhaegal – and within an instant he was wearing its skin. He saw the castle at Eastwatch from the air, the shores of the Bay of Seals and the remains of the Wall.

Doing his best to orient – the constant need to flap one's wings was slightly awkward at first – he took off as fast as possible towards the Last Hearth.

_I will save Sansa and the army, while Jon saves the North – and the world._

* * *

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys rides to the Red Keep.

Daenerys rode through the streets of King's Landing, flanked by a host of Dothraki blood riders and various soldiers garbed in her House colours. The three-headed dragon of Targaryen banner flew over many of the watch towers and other fortifications on her path. King's Landing is mine, she thought. Curious small-folk watched her from their windows and near their doors. A few of them even lined the streets of Flea Bottom as she passed by, her riders breaking up any unruly crowds.

The message from Euron Greyjoy had sealed Cersei's fate. While Daenerys detested Euron – he had stolen one of her children and now taunted her with that fact – it seemed that he had turned his back on Cersei as well. He had refused to aid her against the Targaryen forces and in a final insult to injury had replaced all of her wildfire caches with green water.

She was not inclined to believe the man's rantings if the caches that her scouts – lead by the ever reliable Gendry – had found did not confirm the man's words. And so she and her forces had launched their attack against the Lannister and City Watch forces still manning the city.

Most of the defenders had crumbled within hours of the attack, while some few pockets still fought on. All around her on the path out of the slum she watched Lannister soldiers striking their banners and laying swords at her feet. She had chosen to ride through the slum of Flea Bottom – against her advisers pleading – to show the people that she would not be a ruler content on ignoring them all. She would bring the changes that her ancestors had promised but eventually denied.

_I will break the wheel._

As she rode up from the dirt paths and onto the Street of Sisters she noted the dead bodies littering the cobblestones – a mixture of her own people and Lannister troops, their red cloaks blowing uselessly in the gentle wind. She'd set her Unsullied to work at once on cleaning up the dead; off to her right she spied wagons full of corpses being lead towards the mass graves she'd set up outside the city proper.

The spire of the Red Keep grew closer to her vision. Inside she would find the Mad Queen – as Tyrion had taken to calling her – ranting and raving about her defeat, most assuredly. The courtyard and upper levels had fallen rather easily leaving only the throne room as the last holdout.

* * *

“M'lady!” called Gendry's voice from her left. The young man had been given a horse and named as her scoutmaster for his continued hard work; he had also vowed to smith as much armour and weapons as she would need back at Dragonstone.

“Ser Gendry.” she smiled, willing her bodyguards to let him pass. He rode beside her as they continued towards the next blockade. “Most of the Lannister troops have surrendered – those that still live. King's Landing is ours.”

“It's surreal, really,” he said, a look of confusion upon his face. “I wanted to get away from this shit pile so badly but now I'm here, riding at the side of a Queen.” He had clearly not expected such treatment from a ruler – and that had saddened Daenerys. Every ruler should listen to their subjects.

“Are you certain you wish to leave and return with us to Dragonstone? It will be a long road.” she warned as the blockade in front of them was cleared thus allowing them onward. “and if you are fond of the city -”

“I'm not really.” he interrupted, smiling ever so slightly. “I was out in the Riverlands for the longest. Then I got sold to Stannis Baratheon and ended up back here.”

“Sold? Why?” Daenerys raised a slender brow. _Why would the Usurper's brother take interest in a poor boy from Flea Bottom?_ “And why Stannis?”

That brought a look of discomfort to his face, his eyes unable to meet hers. “I..I shouldn't have said anything. I'm sorry.” What was he hiding?

“Ser Gendry, I do not like secrets. If you have something to tell me – no matter how traumatic it is – I would hear it. I do not judge you for any...atrocities committed against you.” Was that why he was hiding it? Had he been abused in a sexual way by Stannis or his men? Bought and sold like a common whore?

“It's not that, m'lady...” he stammered, wiping sweat from his brow. “They told me true I suppose. Said I was kings blood – that my father was Robert Baratheon; that I was one of his bastard kids.” he sighed, recoiling back in the saddle.

It all made sense now. Daenerys had heard of the Usurper's frankly insatiable thirst for women – it was known he'd fathered dozens of bastard children all around the Seven Kingdoms. Still, who was she to judge a boy on the actions of his father – a father he never met? She'd not judged Jon Snow for being Eddard Stark's son.

* * *

She placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Relax, Gendry. I am not the type of woman to condemn a man for the actions of his blood. You need not fear me – I have learned what it means to be a proper Queen during my time in Essos.”

He blinked at her, nodding ever so slightly. “Um...I know that he did a lot of damage to your family.”

“Yes, Robert Baratheon did that damage – not you.” Daenerys replied as they approached the main gate leading to the Red Keep. Her destiny lay beyond this – the Iron Throne, crafted by Aegon himself; she often wondered how her famous ancestor would react to the world as it was today. _You'd be disappointed_ , she told herself. Aegon had always tried to ensure peace and prosperity for Westeros – one King and seven Kingdoms.

The gate slowly opened into the courtyard of the Red Keep, where Dothraki and Targaryen soldiers milled about. There were a handful of Lannister troops as well, prisoners; they were surrounded by spears and had their hands raised over their heads. As she rode in, she spied Tyrion near the steps of the entrance.

“The Queen comes at last!” he shouted as all present bowed or saluted her. She waved them off with a simple gesture and dismounted her horse, striding to her Hand's side, Gendry following hestiantly behind her.

“And Ser Gendry as well!” Tyrion beamed, clapping his hands together. “I must say the fact you've decided to stay this long is a surprise – a welcome one but a surprise none the less.”

“It's nice to find something I'm good at. I mean, scouting and blacksmithing is nice. And the Queen said that I could smith for her at Dragonstone if I wanted.” Gendry smiled.

* * *

“Good for you, lad.” Tyrion nodded, gesturing to the Lannister prisoners. “My Queen, these men are the main officers of my sister's former army. They threw down their arms and surrendered when we approached the gate. What shall we do with them?”

She walked up to the half-dozen men, eyeing them over. They all appeared to be at least fifty; all six of them had grey hair. A few were dripping with sweat – they all seemed terrified at her approach. “Who commands Cersei Lannister's army?”

One of the men – who's most noticeable feature was a hideous scar over his left eye – nodded. “Me, m'lady. Commander Josah Farman at your service.” he mumbled.

“House Farman of Fair Isle. Sworn to Casterly Rock.” Tyrion stated, folding his hands behind his back.

“Aye, Lord Tyrion.” Farman nodded again, his face strikingly pale. “If you mean...mean to kill us, spare my men. We were just following our liege lord's instructions. Queen Cersei – erm, former Queen – is Lady of Casterly Rock. When she calls we obey.”

Daenerys shook her head. “I do not punish men for simply obeying orders, Commander. Did you butcher, rape or plunder from the people of this city?”

Farman looked almost insulted. “Never, m'lady. A Farman doesn't stoop to such brutality.”

“Release them.” she commanded as the Dothraki raised their spears. “I will allow you and all of your surrendered troops a choice. You may remain here in King's Landing and serve the new Lord of Casterly Rock, Tyrion Lannister – or you may return to your homes in peace, after having handed your weapons over to my forces.”

“Thank you, m'lady.” Commander Farman smiled nervously. “If...if we could bring word to my men so they could decide?”

“Of course.” Daenerys replied, nodding her assent. “Jahka, where did you put the rest of the Lannister soldiers?” she asked one of the Dothraki guards.

“The red-cloak men are by the left gate, Khaleesi.” he bowed.

“Escort Commander Farman and his fellows to the rest of the troops. If any man raises a sword or fist against any of my troops, kill them without hesitation.” she commanded, keeping her gaze icy and firm. She had to send a message – if any of the soldiers would dare throw her offer of mercy back at her they would find no second offer being made.

* * *

As the men were lead away she turned back to Tyrion. “You seem surprised.”

His brows had furrowed and he appeared almost confused. “I...I just never expected to be Lord of Casterly Rock, I suppose.” he laughed.

“It is yours by right.” she smiled, patting him on the shoulder. “Oh, I should also tell you – Ser Gendry here informed me of a curious tale.” gesturing to him softly.

He walked over to Tyrion's side and proceeded to explain about his parentage and the events of his “sale” to Stannis Baratheon.

“..they wanted the kings blood for some ritual, I suppose.” he sighed. “If it wasn't thanks to that Onion Knight I'd be dead by now.”

“Did you say Onion Knight?” Tyrion replied, raising a brow. “As in Ser Davos Seaworth?”

“Aye, that was him. Why?” Gendry said, a look of confusion on his face.

Daenerys allowed herself a giggle. It seems that even now the North and South had some connection to one another aside from diplomacy. Tyrion was once married – against his will – to Sansa Stark, Jon Snow was a bastard as well as Gendry and Gendry had been saved by Jon's Hand, Davos Seaworth.

“I should tell you My Queen – Lord Rowan and his troops report Lannister resistance just outside the city. Seems there are some die hards who refuse to surrender – no matter the odds. He and his soldiers are taking care of them as we speak.” Tyrion said, his expression growing dark.

“And Cersei?” Daenerys waved to the Keep.

“Holed up in the Throne Room. I don't think she realizes that it's over.”

“She will soon enough. Shall we?” In this moment Daenerys was fire and blood.

She would take the Iron Throne - and then it was on to Euron Greyjoy to get her child back. 

* * *

 

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Tormund battle the Night King for the fate of all Westeros.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! A Bran-Dragon chapter will follow soon. I promise. <3

It felt as though he was stepping through a cold stream of water. That was the best – and perhaps only – way Jon could describe the sensation of passing through what the Children called “the conduit”. His skin seared with cold and biting chill as the image of the well lit, warm cavern he was in faded away to be replaced by a dark and snow-covered chamber.

Quickly he grabbed for one of the cherry-like fruits the Children had given him and Tormund; they would keep them warm for several hours, allowing their bodies to resist the unnatural cold of the Land of Always Winter. He bit into it and immediately felt the near-freezing temperatures ebb; it felt as though another normal day on the Wall – cold, but not deathly so.

He and Tormund looked about, trying to get their bearings. The roof of this cavern had collapsed entirely, with the echo of howling snow and wind racing through the breach. As they inched forward a few steps they spied the massive roots of a dead weirwood tree, the white branches almost the size of a pillar as they curled this way and that through the snows.

“Here we are...” Jon whispered, causing Tormund to grunt his ascent. “We have to get up there.” Without thinking he grasped the nearest root and tested it; thankfully it held. Jon began to climb ever so carefully up the twisted maze of tree roots, the sounds of the biting wind growing ever so closer the higher he went. Tormund he saw was right behind him, scrambling to keep up; the wildling almost seemed afraid.

_Can't say I blame him._

The Lands of Always Winter were a cold and desolate place; the furthest north that anyone could know of in the world. No one lived here – save the Others. This was their domain, and now Jon was invading it.

As he reached the top of the cave he pulled himself up and out, reaching a hand back down to Tormund as he whimpered pathetically, unleashing a barrage of curses as Jon hauled him out.

“I'm not doing this again! Fuck that!” he growled, shaking the snow from his beard.

“You've got the fruit, right?” Jon shouted over the near deafening winds.

“That doesn't make me any braver coming here!” Tormund replied, waving his hands angrily about.

The Lands of Always Winter were just that; Snow blew this way and that from the biting winds that Jon was sure would be fatal had they not consumed the fruit from the Children. Before them, the remains of a great weirwood tree jotted out from milennia of snow and ice, the solemn face carved into the side being almost frozen over with ice.

Through the wind he spied various stones, scattered about them in a spiral pattern. Each of the stones seemed to glow ever so faintly from their centres, emitting a brownish pulsing light. Every step Jon took his feet sank through layers of snow, the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the deep being the hardened layers of ice that had built up.

They had made it. And now all they could do was to wait. The Night King would come for them after they arrived, the seer had told him. It would not tolerate this intrusion into what it considered the domain of the Others. In a way it was a shame that they could not stay and explore this place – it had never been mapped or charted by mortal eyes.

“Hey! You deaf?!” Tormund shouted as he shoved his arm into Jon's chest. “Been calling you!”

“Sorry! It's hard to hear over this wind you know..” Jon replied, shrugging. The snow was almost blinding; he was hardly able to see a few metres in front of his face. “We have to wait for it to get here. I'm sure it won't be long!”

“Come on you icicle-faced fucker!” Tormund screamed, drawing his sword and waving it about ever so rapidly. “Are you scared of King Of the Kneelers Jon Snow and TORMUND GIANTSBANE?! I'll fuck you into the dirt!”

Jon rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh. Almost without warning the wind came to a halt, the snow dying down almost as fast as it had begun. The sky grew ever more dark as the two eyed one another worriedly.

Their breath became almost frozen the moment it left their mouths, even with the magical fruit. The cold still did not trouble them but the sudden change in climate did.

And then Jon saw it. The Night King. It stood over by one of the ritual stones, its head craned slightly to the left as its cold eyes bored into the two men. It almost seemed curious – as to why and how they had managed to reach here. It made no moves to attack or even draw its weapon; it just stared.

Drawing Longclaw Jon stepped forward, raising the blade towards it. “It's just the three of us now. No army can help you here. I don't know if you can understand me and I don't really care, but we're going to finish this.”

Tormund stood in a combat stance, the man growling as though a bear. “YEAH! Come on!”

In a flash it had drawn the weapon sheathed on its back – a curved sword, made entirely of ice. Jon could see the cold washing off the blade in layers as the Night King advanced, its steps slow and deliberate.

* * *

Jon charged forward, swinging Longclaw in a wide arc in front of him. The Night King blocked his attack, the two swords – Valyrian Steel and the Others unknown blade – clashing together caused an almost shrill scream to echo from their meeting. Jon bit down on his cheek hard to try and smother the overwhelming pain in his ears he felt from the sound.

His foe swung back around, its cut aimed for Jon's back – which Jon was able to roll away from as he launched forward. The Night King turned to face him as he struggled to his feet, his weight being encumbered by the massive amount of snow. He raised his sword just in time to block an overhead slash, sending the Other stepping back slightly. It then retaliated with a flurry of stabs and quick cuts, trying to break Jon's defense.

He swung Longclaw as hard and fast as he could muster, narrowly parrying or missing the blows. Beads of sweat dripped down his face as the Other pressed its attack, ignoring Tormund's attempted taunts altogether. The wildling was rushing to catch up with Jon, his sword held aloft.

Rolling to his right Jon quickly sent a slash towards its legs, causing it to step back and allowing Jon to clamber to his feet. As he held up Longclaw Jon saw all around him the same bitter cold smoke drifts wafting up into the sky. _I don't want to get hit by that thing_ , he knew instantly.

It was Tormund's turn to attack now, the man swinging wildly from left to right as he trudged through the snow, screaming obscenities at the Night King all the while. The King effortlessly – as though not even worth the effort – dodged around the blows, its movement almost a blur as Jon fought the aches in his arms.

“STAND STILL AND DIE!” bellowed Tormund as he continued his slashing. “FIGHT ME FAIR YOU CUNT!”

The Night King made no response, merely sidestepping the blows. It looked to Jon – it appeared to have an almost amused expression on its face, as though wondering if this was the best the living could muster. The split second allowed Tormund to land a blow upon its chest – which was completely negated as the blade he was holding shattered upon impact, the shards blowing across the ground and into the snow.

He held the remains of the blade – the bone handle – up to his bewildered face. “The fuck?!” Jon heard him shout – before his friend was sent flying off to the right, crashing unconscious into a heap of snow.

Jon could have sworn the Other had slapped Tormund across the face – apparently its slap was so powerful as to result in such a result. Abandoning the fighting stance he'd assumed Jon rushed to get to Tormund – only to find a massive wall of ice shooting from the ground in front of him. He turned to his right, finding another wall. Another shot up from his left and behind him.

_It's trapping me,_ Jon realized. The Night King simply stared at him, raising its weapon as it advanced forward to resume the battle.

Jon raised his blade and slashed forward, pushing himself with every bit of weight in his body. He slashed again after the Night King blocked the attack, going from the right side this time. Another block. And another. It was battering aside his assault with no effort – just as it did with Tormund. The fact Jon had a Valyrian steel blade seemed to make no difference.

Another flurry of slashes and cuts came his way and Jon fought to parry – every blow against his sword sending a wave of agony through his muscles. He fell to one knee, feebly slashing at its legs once more, his body howling in pain from the exertion. Jon prepared for the end; only to find that the Night King was simply standing over him, not moving.

“FINISH ME THEN!” he cried, wheezing raggedly.

The Other placed its weapon back upon its back and held one hand open by its knee. As Jon watched a solid blue icicle formed in the hand, which was then pressed into Jon's shoulder.

* * *

He screamed, the pain almost unbearable upon his flesh which sizzled and hissed from the freezing cold while spurting blood from the impact. Jon fell to his hands and knees, the pain from the shard only growing worse as it touched the snow. With his remaining hand he grasped the icicle – which only made the pain worse from the sheer cold.

Groaning in pain he fought through the searing upon his fingertips and pulled, successfully ripping it from the shoulder and throwing it to the ground. His fingertips were bleeding profusely, the force of his throw having ripped the flesh stuck to the shard clean off. He threw himself onto his back and began to crawl backwards away from the Other, who simply stood staring.

Bumping into the wall of ice Jon sighed, struggling and fighting with all of his might to get to his feet, his whole body burning with a mixture of muscle pain, actual physical pain, and sheer cold. He leaned against the wall, breathing hard. “Is that...is that all you've got?” he taunted, spitting a mixture of saliva and blood into the snow.

At once the wall was not there and Jon fell backwards, smashing into the ground hard despite the layers of snow. Fresh rounds of pain shot through him – from head to toe this time – and he groaned in shock and surprise, seeing that all of the walls erected had vanished from sight. The Night King also began to advance towards him once more, taking its blade in hands.

A projectile of snow smashed into the Night King's face as it grew closer, causing it to freeze and jerk its head towards the source – which was Tormund who, while bloodied was tossing snowballs toward the Other in an attempt to distract it. “OI! Come and get me you shit-brained frozen fuck!” he yelled, tossing more snowballs at it.

This seemed to work as it turned away from Jon and began to advance on Tormund, who backed up and hurled more snow as he did. “GET UP SNOW! KILL IT!” he screamed.

Jon fought to his feet and stumbled forward, fumbling in the snow until grasping Longclaw.

The Night King was nearly at Tormund, who had backed himself up into one of the magic stones. With a mighty roar he then rushed forward abruptly, throwing all of his weight ahead as he slammed into the Night King with all of his might, sending them both tumbling to the ground – much to Jon's shock.

“GIMME THAT FUCKING SWORD!” he screamed as he grabbed for the weapon, which had been dropped as it fell. Wrapping his hands around the white hilt Tormund bellowed a cry of agony, his fingers obviously freezing to the weapon as he struggled to pull away.

“WHAT THE FUCK?! FUCK THIS GUY!” The Night King got to its feet and kicked Tormund in the stomach, sending him flying backwards into the magic stone nearest to him, the brittle rock shattering upon the wildling's impact.

Jon saw as Tormund struggled to move – his hands still frozen to the blade – that the stone had released the same brownish energy that it had been glowing with before the battle. He watched as the energy shot forward into the Night King's chest, causing it to stagger backwards – a look of surprise upon its normally frozen face. As it turned about to Jon he saw a small hole had formed in the front of it's armor.

* * *

_The stones are the key!_ Jon knew at once. He charged forward, slashing once more towards the unprotected King – only to find his blade literally embedded in a frozen line of ice in the air over it's head. Jon struggled to pull Longclaw out, the ice being particularly dense and strong as his foe walked over to Tormund and ripped the blade from his hands, causing him to wail in agony as his fingers bled all over the snow.

He just managed to pull the blade free as it slashed towards him, narrowly blocking the attack. Jon broke and ran, looking about frantically to find more of the stones. He knew they were scattered about the area in a sort of spiral pattern, and much to his relief found another not far from where Tormund was suffering.

Jon ran into the stone which fell over almost instantly – clearly the power of the Others magic had caused some kind of brittle effect here. The same brownish light flowed from the rock and smashed into the Night King, who staggered back once more, glaring towards Jon with a sneer upon its lips.

_Good. He's mad._ Jon continued to run – even though both shoulders were in agony; one from the stabbing and another from the impact on the rock – and felt more icicles whiz by, the Night King throwing them as it conjured them from thin air.

No matter how hard Jon ran the Night King was able to keep up, its strides almost matching his pace. His whole body was still rebelling against him – every step was a bargain with the pain and suffering he felt – but the pure rush of finally knowing its weakness sustained him.

Jon dived to the ground as another shard sailed narrowly over his head, smashing into one of the stones and shattering it on impact. He allowed a chuckle to come from his lips – as weak as it was – as he took off on his run once more.

His running was stopped rather suddenly by his body smashing into the Night King – who had somehow materialized in front of him. Jon fell to the ground, Longclaw clattering off into the snow once more. By now he was barely alive – every breath was a struggle and every single twitch of muscle a risk.

But he saw it. A small – about the size of a gold dragon – breach in its armour just over the chest. Jon knew if he could hit that exposed area it might be enough – hopefully – to weaken or destroy the Night King.

It snarled down at him as it extended its hands – which caused blade like gusts of unnatural wind to shoot through Jon's body. No amount of magic from the Children could protect him now – the very skin on his body, the blood in his veins, everything was freezing before his eyes. Jon scrambled as best he could to move away but found that he was almost paralyzed, Longclaw just narrowly out of his reach.

He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He squeezed and cried to reach the hilt of his weapon but nothing would move. He was frozen; a complete and helpless target for the wrath of the Others.

It leaned down and pressed a hand to Jon's cheek, frozen over by a layer of permafrost. Jon felt his mind being invaded by a cold and calculating presence.

“First Man. The Jon Snow. You are the only worthy adversary this one has faced. But even you will not stop the preservation and purification of this land. Not even you can stop nature's wrath from flowing across the land you call Westeros. You will serve nature well.”

“I think not.”

* * *

 

A voice suddenly broke the Night King's mental connection.

Jon saw the seer step forward through the snow, seemingly unaffected by the unnatural climate. It stared towards the Night King with a mixture of pity and sadness upon its weathered and wrinkled face.

“Your time is over. This one has discovered your weakness. Something even we could not.” the seer nodded to the shattered stones. “The residual magics within are still reacting to you. Have you not wondered why it affects you so?”

The Night King advanced on the seer, lobbing icicles as it walked. The Seer showed no reaction to the shards as they seemingly melted before even reaching the Child. “You were our mistake. Our failure. We should have foreseen what would happen.”

A warm feeling burst through Jon's body as he felt the ice melting around him. He could move his hands, his legs, breathe – everything. He grabbed Longclaw and rushed towards the Night King, who was still advancing upon the Seer.

“We are sorry for creating you. Join your fellows in the peace of death.” it echoed. The Other turned about to face Jon – and he shoved Longclaw forward with all of his might, aiming for the hole in its armour.

The blade smashed into the breach, causing a great explosion of residual energy that sent Jon flying backwards into the snow. The Night King fared much worse; it fell to its knees, eyes wide as dinner plates as it seemingly froze solid, the armor shattering from its body in the process. A brown glow emanated from the center of its chest as the last of its protection collapsed – the dragon-glass used to create it, Jon knew at once.

* * *

 

Scrambling to his feet Jon found the Seer at his side, smiling sadly. Tormund had also recovered, his hands still bleeding but less so and had come up beside Jon's right. “Fucking hell..” he whispered, mouth agape.

“You have done it, Jon Snow. Now, take your blade and stab it through its heart. That will destroy the magic within.” the Seer said, its body shivering ever so slightly.

“What...what about the other ones?” Tormund asked, glaring down towards the Child.

“Once the Night King's heart is shattered the others will shatter too. It is their master – and when the master is destroyed they will be destroyed as well. The Others cannot function without their King.” was the seer's reply.

Jon stepped forward – more like limped forward – and faced the solid ice statue that had once been on the verge of killing him.

He stabbed his blade down into the dragon-glass heart with a triumphant cry.

* * *

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran roasts some dead guys and sees the end of the Others. Oh and Jon and Tormund get some nice warm soup.

Bran felt more alive then he had been since losing the use of his legs. As he soared over the vast numbers of charging dead, the feelings that boiled over into his mind were almost overwhelming. It was a sense of ecstasy, of freedom – of triumph. He could feel everything about Rhaegal; the massive leathery wings, the hardened scales upon its body – even the warm feelings of power from its fiery breath. With every attack he rained down on the enemy his urge to destroy more of them only intensified; the boiling hatred of the ancient dragons behind him. At this moment he was not simply Brandon Stark – but he was Rhaegal.

_You will never walk again, but you will fly_. He remembered the words of the Three-eyed-Raven as he made another pass over them, incinerating wights by the hundreds before they could reach the Northern army, which was beginning to collapse under the sheer weight of the assaults. Even as triumphant as he felt soaring over the battlefield he knew that they were down there.

The Others.

Bran had seen them atop their undead horses, screeching in their blighted language while they commanded their soldiers on. He had tried to incinerate them – perhaps dragon-fire would do what normal fire could not – but found they were invulnerable to it as well. A frustrated sense of rage built up after that first Other; he had to swoop as low to the ground as possible and destroy as many of its minions as he could to quench that feeling.

At the back of his mind Bran felt Rhaegal's true persona clawing furiously at him in an attempt to regain control – and the feelings were so strong, so hateful and so overpowering that he knew that remaining warged into the dragon too long could prove fatal.

He would need to leave. As much as it angered him, his young mind could not dominate the raw and unmatched fury of a dragon. The beast only answered to one person – Jon – and Bran could not sense him anywhere.

The connection that Rhaegal had to Jon was intense. Feelings of a sort of paternal devotion and camaraderie bubbled to the surface when Bran thought of Jon. It was clear that the beast was intelligent enough to understand that it had bonded with his cousin just as the dragon-riders of old Valyria would bond with their own beasts.

Even Daenerys did not inspire such a reaction in him; Rhaegal considered himself bonded to Jon Snow – not to Daenerys or her cause – and a fierce sense of protectiveness washed over Bran. The beast had vowed to remain in the North no matter what and fight alongside Jon.

He felt the rage boiling over inside of him as the beast presence clawed ever forward, raking its talons against him. The anger and fury were raw, fierce and primal – Bran wanted to rip and kill and destroy everything that stood in his way. Eat! Rip! Tear! Maim! FIRE!

* * *

“FIRE! DEATH!” Bran shouted, his eyes still rolled backwards as he remained warged into the dragon. Meera and Arya stared at him briefly before rushing to his side, shaking him in a futile attempt to get him back to his body.

“Bran! What's wrong with him?” Arya asked, her voice panicked.

“I don't know!” Meera shouted back, her arms wrapping tightly around his arm and dragging him away from the base of the tree. “Come on Bran, wake up! We need you!”

“BURN! FIRE!” his voice echoed. The voice was not Bran's own, being deep and hollow – as though it was talking from the bottom of a well or deep inside a cave. “Fire!” Bran's body began to shake ever so slightly as Meera placed him onto his sled.

“Bran! Come back, please!” she cried, throwing herself upon him. “I love you Bran, don't leave me..” she kissed him on the lips as hard and as passionate as she could.

Arya rushed to her brother's side, squeezing his hand tight. “I won't lose you like I lost Robb and Rickon!”

“What's happening? Arya?” came a voice from the godswood's entrance as Edmure Tully walked in, a look of confusion upon his face. “I heard screaming and shouting...are you alright? What's happened to Bran?” he asked, rushing over to the sled.

“It's a long story Uncle!” Arya shouted while Meera sobbed into Bran's chest.

“Do you need me to fetch Maester Wolkan?” he asked, squeezing Arya's shoulder. “Please, let me help.”

“I appreciate it Uncle but there's nothing that can be done right now! We have to see him through this.” Arya snapped, shaking off his touch. In truth she was grateful for Edmure and his support – but no amount of healing salves or potions could help bring Bran from his mental connection.

_He has to do that by himself..._

Bran felt a sudden cessation of attack upon his mind – the dragon's assault was fierce and unrelenting as it tried to not simply expel him but obliterate him – as the essence focused on the battlefield with a curious expression. Bran turned to the source as he saw through Rhaegal's eyes.

* * *

The Others and their army were...collapsing. Not in a military sense of 'falling back' – but as he watched the shrieks and cries of the Others filled the air as Bran watched; those upon horses tumbled from them and struggled to their feet – only to watch in horror as their armor shattered about their bodies every which way. Their skin – pale and nearly frozen – hardened into solid ice as they collapsed into almost life-like sculptures of ice, some of them shattering as they collapsed to the ground.

The wights were a different story. At first they stopped their assault, looking wildly all around them as though confused. Following a few moments of this behaviour Bran watched as the bodies simply fell to the ground; as they did so, small blue orbs shot from their bodies and up into the sky. At first it began with one wight, then ten, then a hundred, then thousands, followed by tens of thousands.

Massive bears crashed into ice spiders, squashing them outright. Shadow-cats in mid jump fell onto their backs while wights that were hacking and slashing at the Northern shields simply crashed onto the defenders instead, their movements ceased.

The fog that coalesced over the Gift and the remains of the Wall began to lift, the mist disappearing into the air along with the hundreds of thousands of blue orbs from the wight armies. He felt the confusion and bewilderment of the northern defenders as this unfolded in front of him – before a near-deafening cheer of triumph went up all around him. From the walls of the Last Hearth to the cavalry riders, the North cheered their victory.

Bran's thoughts immediately turned to Jon as he released control of Rhaegal, allowing the angry essence to reclaim its body. As he re-entered his own he found himself laid out on the sleigh with Meera sobbing into his chest. Arya and his uncle Edmure knelt over him, their own faces awash with worry.

“..What happened?” he mumbled weakly as he reached up to his forehead. A throbbing pain shot through his body as he wrapped an arm around Meera.

“You're back!” she sobbed, grabbing him and kissing him tightly on the lips. “You were gone for so long...then you started shouting things like 'fire' and 'burn' – I thought we lost you.”

“You really gave us a scare, Bran.” Arya kissed him gently on the forehead. “Even uncle Edmure here.”

“I...I have no idea what's happening but – it's good to see you alive and well, Bran.” he smiled, looking rather sheepish.

Bran smiled to each of them. “It's over. I...I don't know what happened but I think Jon destroyed the Night King. I...I can't sense him but I watched as the Others and their armies collapsed all at once.”

“Truly? Then...” Edmure whispered, his voice growing hoarse with excitement.

“...then I think the Long Night is over, uncle.”

* * *

Jon did not remember the next few moments before he came to, slumped over in the cavern being tended to by the Children of the Forest. He remembered stabbing Longclaw into the frozen sculpture that had once been the Night King but everything after that was almost a blur; a forgotten memory. He did feel the warmth and soothing sensations of the Children's healing magic – they smeared a greenish paste upon his shoulder and gave him a warm broth to warm his insides.

“You have triumphed, Jon Snow.” The Seer nodded, sitting down next to him. “The Night King is gone...and the mistakes of our past have been rectified.”

“...Tormund. Where's Tormund?” Jon croaked, looking about for the wildling. His head swam with nausea as he tried to rise, being gently held down by some of the Children.

“Your friend is fine. He is resting over by the weirwood grove.” the seer replied, gesturing towards the trees. Jon saw Tormund perched atop a rock, heartily drinking down what he presumed was his own cup of broth.

A curious glow drew Jon's mind to his scabbard. Taking out Longclaw ever so slowly he noted that the blade was glowing white; the Valyrian steel twinkling from the new effect. “What...what's this?”

“It seemed that when you destroyed the heart of the Night King, you were able to release the remaining essence contained within it. Not the corrupted magics of the Others but the pure, original magics of our people.” the seer gently touched the blade, raising a leafy brow.

“Will it...will it harm the steel?” Jon blinked, running his finger along the flat edge of the sword.

“Oh no, not in the slightest.” the seer chuckled, his laugh a sort of rustling of foliage. “dragon steel cannot be harmed by the magics of the Children – but it seems only improved. The blade will be sharper, more fierce and most importantly – able to channel the latent magics of our people wherever you find them.”

“Magic?” Jon raised a brow.

“There is precious little of it left in your world, Jon Snow. The consequence of the Long Night, our war against the First Men and their own war against the Andals millennium later. But there are, hidden in the deepest corners of Westeros shards of ancient energy.”

Jon nodded. “Fascinating...but I need to get back. Back to the Last Hearth – to my wife. My people.” he moaned, trying to rise once more to his feet. The world spun once more as he shuffled to his feet yet no tiny hands held him back. “...Are we free to go?”

The seer smiled. “You may depart whenever you wish, Jon Snow. But know this – you shall forever be touched by the old gods and the spirits of our departed for your deeds this day. You truly are the hero of legend.”

“WHAT ABOUT ME?!” came an annoyed shout from Tormund.

“..You as well, Tormund Giantsbane.” the seer smirked, letting itself laugh once more.

Jon stumbled over to Tormund, the big man slapping him on the shoulder with a whoop. “Looks like we did it!” he beamed, guzzling back the last of his broth.

“Aye, we did.” Jon smiled. “Though I still feel...feel weird.” His shoulder ached horribly, even with the healing paste the Children had placed on it and his body was wracked with cold; even the broth did not fully take away the chills that he'd been feeling.

“Wonder how long we were gone for.” Tormund asked, shrugging towards him.

“Perhaps two or three of your hours. No more then that.” came a Child's voice, though not the seer's.

“Well...that means the boat hasn't left without us, I hope.” Jon laughed, gesturing to the surface.

“There is a quicker way to the surface if you so require.” the same Child's voice responded, Jon being able to watch as it tended to some loose branches in one of the weirwoods. “Simply touch the face on the weirwood beside me and it will show you the way.”

Curiously Jon edged towards the angry-looking face on the weirwood in question. He brushed a hand up against it and watched as a bit of rock on the far side of the chamber faded away, revealing a set of stone steps.

“All this fucking magic makes my head hurt.” grumbled Tormund as the two began walking towards the surface.

* * *

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa misses Jon. The Last Hearth throws a massive party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry! The smut chapter will be the one after next! I promise yall won't be left hanging too long. XD

The raucous celebration at the Last Hearth was deafening. All around the castle, in and out men cheered the defeat of the Others; they drank, sang, and danced with one another around bonfires being made out of the legion of dead bodies left behind.

Sansa sat in the Great Hall, taking no part in any of it. Her mind was nearly blank and even though she should be celebrating this moment with her soldiers she could not. She scanned the horizon, constantly searching for Rhaegal – who had flown off towards Eastwatch after the collapse of the Others – who would carry Jon back to them.

_To her._

She placed a hand over her stomach – the small bump forming being a source of comfort to her. _Where are you, Jon? I need you_. Her mind ached, hurt, whatever you wish to call it – and her emotions were in shambles. The Maester had spoke of the “effects” of pregnancy leading to more volatile emotional outbursts; indeed she recalled vividly the way her lady mother had been with all of them when she was pregnant with Rickon.

* * *

“My lady,” came Ser Davos's voice, a look of concern upon his face. “you should really get some rest.”

“I can't rest, Davos.” she responded, chewing idly on her cheek to keep from crying. “not while Jon is out there. The North needs him, his subjects need him. I...I need him.”

“I know, my lady.” Davos said, placing a gentle hand upon her back. No matter the situation, the Onion Knight was always doing his best to make either herself or Jon comfortable; offering as much fatherly advice as he could muster. It made Sansa grateful to him – even now. “But Jon is strong. He killed the Night King – I'm sure he is fine.”

“Did he? Or did they destroy one another?” she sighed, returning to her seat by the fire. She'd experienced this kind of dread before when the Wall had collapsed – she was so afraid that Jon was one of the thousands dead that she'd gone catatonic. But this time, she could not afford to – for the sake of their child.

“We've sent a bird to Eastwatch requesting any news on the King's return.” Davos offered, taking a seat beside her. “Commander Pyke will be able to tell us any further news. I promise, when we get a reply you will be the first to know.”

“Can you believe it, Davos? It's...it's over.” Sansa let out a slight laugh. “We...we actually won.”

“Aye, my lady. That we did.” he smiled, patting her arm softly. “Your presence on the battlements inspired our men to fight on. To know that their Queen of Winter was watching over them was a great boon.”

Sansa shook her head. “No. Jon won this for us – wherever he is. The men follow him, not me.” She had done her best to earn the respect of the banner-men – respect she'd lost during her affiliation with Petyr Baelish.

_Oh dear Petyr if you could see me now,_ she thought _. I would dig up your corpse and spit on it were I able._

“The men follow both of you.” Davos answered, a fatherly smile upon his lips. “You might not think so but they respect and admire you just as much as they do Jon.”

She allowed herself a small smile. _I can never be as inspiring as Jon_ , she knew. Her time in King's Landing had taught her to be ruthless and subtle – to wear many masks and use people as one saw fit to advance their own standing or goals.

But her time with Jon had slowly whittled and melted down the intensity of it all for her – and it was thanks to him, truly thanks to him that she was able to shed some of the icy exterior. Removing Baelish from the equation had helped in more ways then one; never again would he attempt to seduce her with power or money or manipulation. “We make for a good team, I suppose.” she snickered.

“That you do. If you beg pardon, my lady – I need to go make sure the men aren't tearing the castle apart with their celebrations.” Davos chuckled and rose from his chair. “If you feel up to it later feel free to join us. Say a few words.”

“Thank you, Davos. I will consider it.” she smiled as he left the room, leaving Sansa to her solitude. The crackling of the fire was a soothing comfort to her as she felt her mind growing hazy with fatigue. She was just...so tired of everything unfolding. _It was never enough for the gods to punish me_ , she thought, _but now they want to punish my child too._ Would her child grow up without a father?

“...no, Jon will come back, little one. I know he will..” she whispered, struggling to hold her eyes open.

* * *

A knock at the door interrupted her drowsing. As Sansa shook the fatigue from her head Harmond Umber walked in, taking a seat next to her by the fire. “Queen Sansa,” he smiled, bowing towards her as he shuffled about in the oversized chair. “I thought you would be celebrating with the others!”

“No Harmond, I'm...rather tired.” she sighed, smiling towards the boy. “I thought you would be with them, being as this is your castle.”

“I wanted to but they said I was too young. Me, too young. I'm seven years old!” Harmond pouted, folding his arms over his chest. “Stupid kneelers anyway.”

Sansa laughed, surprised at his blunt honesty. “You know that a 'kneeler' means 'those who answer to a lord', right Harmond?”

The boy laughed. “I know, but I just like using it in place of curse words. The maester doesn't like it when I swear. Even though my grandfather and father did it all the time. You should have heard them. Cunt this and cunt that -”

“My lord!” Sansa choked, a fit of giggles falling from her mouth.

“Sorry, Queen Sansa.” he smiled sheepishly.

_Queen Sansa,_ she mused. Part of her liked the new title – but a queen was nothing without a king by her side. _Damn it Jon, come back to me. Please. We need you._

* * *

 

A roar from the east shocked her and Harmond both out of their conversation.

_Rhaegal..._

Sansa flew out of the hall and down the stairs, running as fast as her dress and shoes could carry her. She clambered out of the open gate and shoved her way past the celebrating soldiers, many of whom were now staring in awe up towards the sky. She followed their eyes to see a black shape faintly approaching. Of course there was no way to tell who was with the dragon from here – she would just need to hope and pray for Jon to be there.

Rhaegal crashed down just before the line of bonfires and burning corpses. The beast was physically unharmed as it shook bits of frost and ice from its wings. Sansa shoved her way through the soldiers, ignoring the fact her dress was now coated in snow up to her waist. She pushed, punched and kicked her way to where it roosted, letting out a contented roar.

As she made it to the front of the line of tired and haggard men she watched as a pair of boots smacked into the ground from atop the beast's back, followed by a rough and worn pair of snowshoes.

A deafening cheer went up all around her, the soldiers celebrating wildly as they realized their King had returned. “THE KING IN THE NORTH!” shouted someone and soon the entire gathering of men; from the Last Hearth to the open fields where Rhaegal sat were chanting.

* * *

Jon looked rough – he had a green paste smeared over his left shoulder and he seemed slightly pale. Sansa crashed into his arms all the same, sobbing; both from the cold and the shock and joy of seeing him again.

“You're alive!” she wept as Jon's arms cradled her tightly. “When you hadn't come back...I didn't know...”

“It's alright, love.” he whispered, planting a gentle kiss on her cheek. “I promised you – just like always, a husband keeps his word.”

Sansa grasped a hand and slid it to her stomach, letting Jon feel their child – or the beginnings of it. “See? I told you...” she whispered, her eyes swimming with tears. A bitter cold washed over her body from the sheer amount of wet snow now clinging to her dress but she did not care.

Jon's face lit up as he rubbed her stomach. “Aye.” he mumbled – Sansa could see a few tears falling from his eyes. “Sansa...” he groaned, pulling her back into his arms.

“Jon...” she could hardly breathe, her body feeling as though it was filling an empty void inside of her. They kissed, hard and passionate with Sansa pressing all of her being into Jon's lips. For every moment she had to spend away from him. For every second she feared him lost.

The crowd cheered around them. Tormund even joined in, wrapping his arms around both of them and hugging tight. “What? I wanted in on this too!” he shouted, causing both of them to burst into laughter.

“It's good to see you too Tormund,” Sansa snickered, giving him a gentle hug. He patted her gently on the back, shooting a wink at Jon as he did so.

“Okay Tormund, hands off the Queen.” Jon said, sticking his tongue out at the man, who merely laughed and stumbled away.

“I need to get drunk! NOW!” his voice echoed as he shoved his way through the cheering crowd.

Jon took Sansa in his arms and lifted her up, carrying her back towards the castle. All around her the men were breaking into song and celebration, with many of them hooting and hollering towards the pair as they passed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and nuzzled into him, feeling the warmth and peace she had grown accustom to.

As they walked through the courtyard of the Last Hearth Sansa spied Davos, Lord Harmond and Dim staring at them wide eyed. “The..Ser Davos wants to see you I'm sure..” she whispered to him, gently nipping at his neck.

“Fuck ser Davos.” Jon said, causing her to howl with laughter. “Not literally! I'll talk to him...after I've had a more private chat with you.” he smirked, kicking open the door to the Lord's Chamber with a grunt.

Sansa giggled as she was thrown onto the bed. “Claim your rights, My King – your Queen has waited too long.”

* * *

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys sits the Iron Throne. Tyrion does some Hand of the Queen work.

The halls of the Red Keep were once vibrant and full of life. Courtiers moving to and fro, servants rushing about carrying jugs of wine or water or messages for some lord. Paintings of vibrant landscapes, of ancient heroes long past hung around every corner.

No longer. As Tyrion strolled through the halls he saw a hundred shattered memories. He remembered the japes, insults and tirades he had been forced to endure from the lowest noble to his lord father – the lord father he slew. The paintings were gone, replaced with tattered lion banners. The servants off in some corner, likely cowering for their lives. The courtiers having fled the city days or weeks ago, carrying off as many treasures as they could.

Now the only people in the halls were Dothraki, milling about and inspecting the various stones or marbles or other troops – mostly those of the Reach or the Stormlands – who stood solemnly guarding important rooms and chambers.

Tyrion approached the great double doors to the throne room. Two Dothraki stood guard, their spears held aloft as they watched him. He stood where all those who deigned to enter would have – the footsteps and echos of the past were all around him.

His father, Jaime, sweet Cersei herself. Poor dead Ned Stark. Jon Arryn. Robert Baratheon. All had come before the Iron Throne – and only some had left alive. The doors opened as he strolled into the mostly empty room.

* * *

Daenerys was perched atop the Iron Throne, her look one of solemn realization. Dothraki and Reach-men stood all around her, eyes darting this way and that. The last of the blood had been cleaned up – the Kingsguard had fought to the death just as he expected. There was however, one missing piece; Gregor Clegane, the Mountain That Rides – having been inducted just after Cersei's walk of atonement, he'd been told – was not present. Tyrion had ordered a full search of the Keep, the best warriors of the khalasars and the houses that supported the Targaryens with orders to kill the beast in human skin should he be found.

The lion of Lannister had been taken down from its place behind the throne, and the three headed dragon of Targaryen flew proudly in it's place.

“My Queen – the Iron Throne suits you.” Tyrion bowed, smiling ever so softly towards her.

“Aegon's chair – it's almost surreal.” Daenerys said, smiling gently towards him. “Ah, Tyrion – you see Ser Gendry is here before us.”

The young Baratheon bastard was standing on the left side of the throne, a shy look upon his face. “M'lord.” he nodded respectfully.

“I am happy to report that the city is ours.” Tyrion nodded, clasping his hands together. The last of the Lannister soldiers had either surrendered, been killed or fled. “Now, the true task can begin.” He did not look forward to the extensive work of rebuilding and repair that must be undertaken – including feeding the starving smallfolk.

“The task of ruling, you mean.” she nodded, biting on her lip. “Well, you are the Queen's Hand so you will have to help me, you know. No easy way out of this one.”

Tyrion laughed. “But of course. I am curious though, My Queen – what of my sister?” he swallowed hard. Cersei was still a sour topic to him – she was a cruel, malicious and evil witch, who deserved the suffering of a thousand thousand hells.

Yet she was still his sister. She might not have ever cared for him but Tyrion could not simply cast aside the ever slight familial love he had.

Daenerys's face grew hard. “We've confined her to a handmaiden's chamber for now, under heavy guard. I'm still...debating what to do with her.”

Gendry shrugged, stepping in front of the Throne to stand at Tyrion's side. “I say we stuff her head with straw and let Flea Bottom play kickball with it.” He was not fond of her – given that her and Joff had been the reason for his having to leave the city.

_Oh my boy, how much I want to agree to that._ “As much as the children might enjoy such an activity I am afraid my sister's empty head would not be satisfying for long.” Tyrion sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Why should you care too much, m'lord?” Gendry asked, staring curiously towards him. “From what you said the bitch put you through hell. Framed you, tried to kill you, and what not.”

“Yes, you are right. But at the same time – whilst she may not think so – we are still kin. A small part of me; a very, very tiny fragment perhaps still loves her as a brother should. Not the way Jaime did, mind you – but a normal sibling.” Tyrion replied, nodding slightly.

“We will decide her fate in due time.” Daenerys stated, offering a sympathetic smile. “Until then – I have my first act as Queen to consider. Gendry – would you mind giving Tyrion and I a moment, please? We must discuss certain matters in private.”

As the boy shuffled off to the far end of the room to inspect some tapestry or another, Daenerys stepped down from the platform. “I need to ask your advice.” she sat on the steps leading to the throne.

* * *

Tyrion joined her, his back happy at the solid seat. “Of course. That's what a good Hand does.”

“Gendry. Robert's bastard.” Daenerys nodded, rubbing a hand through her hair. “He wants to come with us and serve as a blacksmith at Dragonstone, but..”

“But?” Tyrion asked, raising a brow.

“...but I wanted to know what you do with him. I don't hold him responsible for the Usurper's crimes, of course – but there must be something more he can do other then be a smith his whole life.” she sighed, shaking her head.

“Legitimize him.” he offered, smiling mischievously towards her.

That took Daenerys aback. “Restore the house that deposed my family? Are you insane?”

“Hear me out,” Tyrion raised his hands, chuckling. “The Baratheon house goes back thousands of years to the Age of Heroes. They weren't always CALLED House Baratheon but the Stormlands had been ruled by the Storm Kings of House Durrandon for eight thousand years.”

Daenerys nodded, urging him onward. “Your ancestor Aegon gave House Durrandon to his half-brother Orys. He kept the sigil – the yellow stag – and the words, _Ours is The Fury_ ; simply changing the name to his own. He saw the merit of the House – of having the Stormlands behind him, and by extension behind Aegon.”

“So, you're saying..” Daenerys furrowed her brows.

“I am saying that the Stormlands will rally behind a Baratheon. There are none left alive to inherit Storm's End – Stannis met his end in the North, his daughter burned alive as a sacrifice if you believe such things. And Renly died childless.” Tyrion motioned to Gendry. “But a son of Robert Baratheon? The people will follow him to the ends of the earth. Like him or not, the man was – and still is – beloved by many of his people.”

“So, if I give him his father's name he will officially declare Storm's End for me?” Storm's End had been taken by Daenerys's troops – surrendering without a fight as Dragonstone did, its garrison almost totally emptied by Stannis's army.

“He will give you House Baratheon.” Tyrion grinned. “And that will make you even more beloved among the Stormlanders.”

* * *

Nodding, she rose to her feet. “Gendry! A moment, if you please.” she yelled, sitting herself back on the Iron Throne. As the boy walked over he offered a bow.

“Yes, m'lady?” he asked, smiling nervously.

“Kneel before me.” Daenerys gestured, her voice stern yet relaxed. “Do not be afraid.”

As he went to one knee he looked at Tyrion, eyes narrowing. The dwarf merely smirked and observed with interest.

“Do you declare yourself to be loyal to me, Daenerys of House Targaryen, First of My Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm?”

“Um...yes?” he said, blinking somewhat stupidly.

“Then from this day until your last day you are Gendry Baratheon. Son of Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord-Paramount of the Stormlands.” she commanded, clapping her hands together. “Let all who hear this decree acknowledge it as law.”

Gendry looked wide-eyed towards her. “Um...what?”

“You are officially of House Baratheon now.” she smiled, nodding towards Tyrion. “Thank him for it.”

“But...I'm a blacksmith. I'm not a lord. I can't read or write or...do numbers or anything like that. I grew up in Flea Bottom..” he stammered, shaking his head in bewilderment.

“Then we will teach you,” Tyrion smiled, waddling over to him and slapping his leg. “you will rule the Stormlands in the name of the Queen. Are you not a loyal subject of hers?”

“Yes, but..”

“But nothing. You will learn the intricacies of being a lord and head of a Great House. Then you will go to Storm's End and rule.” Daenerys offered, nodding towards him. “Don't be frightened. I was when I first was presented with the prospect of ruling. But you will come to realize that it will be as natural to you as baking bread.”

“I can't even bake bread..” Gendry whispered again, still shaking his head.

“Then we will teach you that, too!” Tyrion laughed as he waddled out of the Throne Room.

* * *

 

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa get it on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SMUT AHOY ABANDON SHIP IF YOU DONT LIKE SMUT! 
> 
> also sorry if it sucks. I am awful at writing saucy stuff. Can't be perfect like Amymel86 with her smut scenes. LOL

“Claim your rights, My King – your Queen has waited too long.”

Sansa's words echoed in Jon's mind as he crashed onto the bed next to her, kissing her as feverishly as he could. Their lips continued to duel, their tongues clashing together as two blades would on the field of battle. It wasn't long before Sansa climbed ontop of him and began undoing his tunic.

She kissed her way down his chest and neck, her lips alternating between biting and sucking sometimes. She knew that it made Jon even more aroused, and he drank in her teasing nature by letting out breathy moans of pleasure the more she did so. “More...” he whispered, her lips getting to his navel. She began to unlace his breeches teasingly, his cock throbbing hungrily against the fabric.

His hands grasped Sansa's hair and brushed it, running his fingers along her head as she pulled his cock free, her hands greedily stroking it as pre-cum dribbled down from its swollen head.

“Mmm...is that for me, Jon?” she teased, licking her lips.

“All...all for you, sweetheart...” he moaned, his legs twitching in anticipation. Sansa did not disappoint as she plunged her mouth down onto his member, taking almost all of it into her gullet. Jon gasped; both in surprise and pleasure – as she sucked him down, her throat making obscene noises as she did so.

* * *

“Gods, Sansa...where did you learn that?!” he mumbled, his hips thrusting up into her mouth automatically.

She looked up at him, a mischievous glint in her eyes as she continued to suck his aching cock. Jon threw his head back and whimpered, the sheer amount of pleasure coursing through his veins being almost too much for him to bear.

Sansa's hands did not stay idle either; as he watched, she quickly shucked her way out of the dress – half of it dripping wet with the melted snow – and shed her small-clothes as well, tossing them up towards his face. He inhaled sharply as the silk hit his nose; he could practically taste the wetness oozing off his wife at that moment.

She pulled herself off his cock with a loud pop and licked her lips once more. “I needed that...didn't you?” she winked, climbing back onto him. He could see now that her thighs were slick with her nectar.

“Gods...” Jon moaned as she plunged herself onto his cock, her womanhood slick and hungry for him.

Her hands grasped at his chest as her nails dug into the skin while Sansa let out a cry of pleasure. She rode him fast, her body moving as though she was a blur, her red hair jostling back and forth in the night air.

“Jon...oh Jon!!!” she screamed, having his cock buried up to the base inside of her. “I need this! I need you!”

Jon's hands went to her hips and helped her move, his eyes threatening to loll back in his head from the pleasure he was feeling. “Gods, Sansa! Don't stop!” he urged her on, hands running up her sides, stopping to pinch her nipples.

She let out a cry and threw her head back. “JON!!” she howled, her walls tightening around his cock so hard that it felt for a moment that he'd lose all feeling down there as she came, a thick sheen of sweat dripping down from her forehead.

Even though she was panting heavily as she readjusted herself Sansa continued to ride him at almost the exact same speed, unrelenting in her attack. Jon continued to run his hands up and down her perfect body as she moved, his fingers savouring every little section of her skin.

“No...no more leaving like this...” she groaned, her eyes rolling back in her head ever so slightly. “or...or I'll have to chain...chain you down...JON!” she screamed, his cock being clenched by her walls once again as she came a second time.

Jon stared at her stomach, their child resting safely inside. _Sorry you have to hear this, little one..._

“No more! I promise!” he cried, his balls beginning to burn with anticipation. “I can't...can't hold out much longer Sansa...uuuugh...”

A second wind of sorts struck Jon just as those words left his mouth. He grasped Sansa's hips and lifted her into the air as he stood up from the bed, slamming her down onto the stone desk near the balcony.

She let out a giggle of surprise as he did so, biting and sucking at his neck all the while.

His hands slid to her bottom as he began to piston inside of her, his thrusts harsh and unrelenting. Sansa screamed, her hands digging chunks of flesh from Jon's back as he rocked back and forth, her body quivering with delight at his newfound strength.

“Thought you said you...you couldn't hold out anymore!” she cried as Jon's teeth clamped down on her neck.

“I lied, obviously!” he grinned.

“Jon...oh, gods...” she whined, squirming at his touch. “I never want...want to leave this room – oh YES!” Sansa arched her back, her hands grabbing at empty air as she was hit by her third orgasm of the night.

“Gods Sansa, I'm almost spent for real!” he cried, a mixture of sweat and blood falling down his back and staining the floor. “Can't hold out much more...”

* * *

 

She came two more times in quick succession; collapsing into him as he spilled inside of her, letting out a near-inhuman roar of triumph as he did so. They were a tangled mess of flesh and sweat, Sansa's red hair flowing down over her back and gently touching the edge of his nipples.

“Well, that was...” Jon chuckled, letting out a relaxed sigh.

“S..speak for yourself...I'm so tired now...” she whispered, laughing. “I didn't think..my body could do that so-so fast..”

“Now we know for sure.” he kissed her gently on the cheek. “I...when I was there, fighting against the Night King, I thought of you...and our child. That's what got me home, Sansa. Not the North, not Tormund, Davos, Westeros, nothing. You.”

“I would hope those big hairy men wouldn't inspire you, Jon. I'm your wife, not Davos.” she teased, causing him to laugh once more.

The pair shuffled off the desk and crashed back into the bed, wrapping their arms around each other. They fell asleep within moments, content in the life they were creating together.

* * *

 

 

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Euron ruminates about his future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are at the end of part four folks! Don't worry, Part Five will be coming soon to a web page near you! <3

“It's an impressive kingdom!” Euron shouted from the balcony overlooking the Citadel. He and his soldiers had been settling into Oldtown nicely – his men were far too busy plundering, raping and killing to notice anything else – but the city would make an excellent capital for the new empire he would build.

Just as soon as the diamond was understood, of course. That was the main mystery facing him – it was said that the Valyrians themselves never truly were able to unlock them; they got close, but apparently gave up about a hundred years before the Doom. _I will top the great dragon-lords then_ , Euron thought. _It will be majestic._

His men had taken the Hightower after a grueling siege, only able to gain the castle after robbing the defenders of their food – which Euron himself capped off with a rather risky manoeuvre atop Viserion – but it mattered not. The point was that it now belonged to him, as everything here did. Lord Leyton – the head of House Hightower and former master of Oldtown – would fetch an excellent ransom, so he was kept under guard but comfortable in the tower itself.

The other defenders Euron had put to the sword or allowed his men to drown as sacrifices. The ironborn had impressed the population of the city and put them to work building fortifications, barricades and other equipment – including makeshift traps to line the harbor – in preparation for what was to come.

_And that would be the wrath of Daenerys Targaryen herself._

With the Dragon Queen having taken King's Landing – and with his beloved wife either dead or soon to be – Euron knew that the next target on her list would be him and his beloved pet; the dragon roared as it soared circles about the city, with the threat of dragonfire overhead the citizens would be encouraged to “participate strongly in the new economy”.

There had been grumblings, of course. Some of his more narrow-minded captains resented being “landlocked” - forced to police a city instead of raiding up the Mander – but that had been quickly dealt with. A few drownings put them in their place.

Strolling back into his chamber he plonked himself down at his desk, the black diamond glimmering seductively at him. Various pages had been torn free from the books brought up from the depths of the Citadel; vague references or catalogues about the most dangerous of magic from the Freehold.

Progress with Theon was slow. The boy was resilient – he angrily refused to recognize Euron as King despite everything; torture, bribes, even offers of lordship – and loyal. Having tested the function of some of his Valyrian armour on him was weakening his spirit, surely – but dear Theon still held a great deal of willpower.

The armor itself sat along the far wall. He didn't spend all of his days in the suit – it was far too hot and restricting for his taste – but when he needed to make an example out of some of the Oldtown citizens or defiant ironborn it was an excellent way to reinforce fear.

* * *

“Give me your secret, my little friend.” Euron whispered, leaning down onto the desk and getting as close to the diamond as he could. “let me master you and we will do great things together.” He saw the future glimmering in his eyes – a vast, world-wide empire all controlled from Oldtown. Its power would be unmatched by anything the world had ever known; even Valyria would be considered a minor kingdom compared to what he would build. And all of it – from the furthest of the Shield Islands to Yi Ti – would be his.

_Emperor Euron Greyjoy, First of His Name. I love it._ There would be no need for any succession – as with the diamond he would rule forever. Everything would be done by his design; the people would not worship the Seven or the old gods or the Drowned God – they would worship their ruler.

_Euron the God._

A throne, towering to the tallest reaches of Hightower itself – adorned with gold and silver and rubies and diamonds all, steps of obsidian – and a seat befitting a ruler; the stone heaved from the Salt Throne back on the Iron Islands. At its height he would sit – triumphant and dominant over every creature from the smallest dog to the greatest of kraken or dragon.

His army would be endless and absolute; warriors, trained from birth and imbued with utter devotion to their God and their leader – nothing else would matter. Family, brotherhood – these were concepts of the past. His own people clung too heavily to antique traditions such as raiding and reaving – and their blind worship of the Drowned God was leading them nowhere.

Euron ran his hand along the smooth surface of the diamond. “I had to climb into a pocket of lava to get you. I expect a healthy return.” he laughed, downing a goblet of ale perched upon the desk. As he reclined into the chair his thoughts turned to his dear brother Aeron. Reports indicated that he was on Dragonstone, having taken up cause with the Dragon Queen. This made him laugh; the thought of his prickly and fanatical brother supping with green-landers was a beautiful sight.

Aeron would never approve of what he had in store for their people. The loss of the Drowned God – for any reason – was the ultimate of heresy for the priests; even know Euron knew some of them spoke out against him back home at Pyke. Of course, his people were having them dealt with; there would be no room for priests in his new empire.

There would be no more talk of fate or prophesy or visions when Euron's world was shaped. He made his own fate – no gods or magic would ever change that. And with the use of Valyria's ancient technology the fate of all the known world would be his to decide.

“Come, Daenerys Targaryen. I await a challenge!”

His laugh rang out through the halls of the Citadel for all to hear.

* * *

 

 


End file.
